


I Believe In Nothing but the Truth and Who We Are

by Whreflections



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Kid Fic, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Under the wine, Grantaire smelled like smoke and summer nights.  His dark hair curled in a chaotic mess around his face, his neck below pale and soft.  The first time they met, the first time he drew the scent into his lungs, he ached with the need to mark that stretch of skin, to card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair so very gently before tilting his head back so Enjolras might mark his bared throat and make his claim.  He resisted then, telling himself that to act on instinct alone was the arena of an animal; he was a man of intellect, and he could choose."</p><p>As an alpha, Enjolras has known Grantaire to be his mate since he first came to the Musain, a truth he does his best to bury.  With his devotion already promised to France, he tells himself he cannot risk dividing his loyalties, cannot risk a bond that would pull so heavy on his heart.  This is what he's told himself a thousand times, but when Grantaire needs him, his careful resolutions may not be able to hold against the strain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> asfjd;lk I am more nervous posting this than I have been anything in a LONG time. O.O 
> 
> Um. Hi. :)
> 
> 1\. This is my first omega verse fic. yeah, I have no idea, I just...I've read it before and enjoyed it in certain fics, but I'd never had a plot in my head ready for it. The other night, my brain was just like "Of course Enjolras would be an alpha, but he'd be the most reluctant alpha ever, and then-" and this pretty much all hit me at once, so I had to do it. 
> 
> 2\. This is also my first Les Mis fic, ^^ I fucking adore this ship; it's killing me. They're amazing. So I hope that my love for them helps me do them justice, T.T This is movie verse, and all my knowledge comes from there AND from what I've gleaned from tumblr in my past month or so in the fandom(lmao). I AM reading the Brick, and loving it, but I've got about 400 pages more to go before I even get to our barricade boys, lol Unfortunately, grad school, work, and writing cut into my reading time, XD 
> 
> Anyway, part two of this will be up very soon, I just wanted to post this and...yeah. I hope you guys enjoy it!

_I believe in nothing_

_Not in sin and not in God_

_I believe in nothing_

_Not in peace and not in war_

_I believe in nothing_

_But the truth and who we are_

_-100 Suns, 30 Seconds to Mars_

When he first noticed the scent it was hardly there at all, an undertone to the pervasive smell of wine that seemed to forever cling to Grantaire’s skin.  He leaned against the table beside Enjolras, his body easily slumping into the kind of easy sprawl that came so naturally to him.  Enjolras had a map spread out before him, marking safe houses for the cause with a quill, and he reached out without looking up to wrap his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist. 

“Keep the bottle away, if you please.”  He murmured the words with his lips hardly open, as if the low volume could mean that he somehow wasn’t actually talking to Grantaire, wasn’t actually letting himself be distracted.  “As you can see, I have not yet finished.” 

“You’ve been working all evening; I think you are as finished as you should be for the night, now will you join me?”  In his pause, he tugged his arm away until Enjolras released it, letting him drink.  “Look, if you come and have a drink with me, I give you my word I will listen to whatever speech you choose to give me.” 

“You’ve often heard; that doesn’t mean you’ve ever properly _listened_.” 

Grantaire slid closer, the arm that held the bottle resting against Enjolras’ shoulder.  The man was incorrigible.  “I listen.  I know the sound of your voice quite well, thank you very much.” 

Jaw clenched, Enjolras turned to look at him, ready to stare him down as he sent him away.  It was then, though, that he caught the scent, a hint of it hovering in the short space between them.  Even slight as it was, he could never have missed it.  It brought a tingle to his skin, an itch of awareness like none he’d ever known.  He could feel the subtle warmth off Grantaire’s body beside him, hear the soft draw of his breath and the creak of floorboards behind him as someone crossed the floor (Jehan; he could hear him humming).  Startled, he inhaled sharper than he meant to, cursed himself for it as he steeled his nerves and narrowed his eyes. 

“By God, you _do_ notice; you half had me believing I’d actually gone mad.  Not that I’ve far to go, I grant you, but-“

“If it is your time it could hardly escape my notice, could it?  It is a matter of basic biology.” 

“It’s nothing of the sort.  I knew you the moment I saw you; I could scent it on the air from across the room.”  His voice dipped low, his body shifting just a little closer, enough that Enjolras could feel the stir of air from his breath as he spoke.  “And so I came to your side, and despite the madness of your revolution, I have yet to leave.  What does that tell you?”

“That you are an omega, easily swayed by the presence of an alpha, as are most.  The draw of that alone could pull you in that first night.  As for your continued presence, you stay because you wish it, nothing more.  You have nowhere else you need to go, no reason to leave, and a steady supply of wine.  Your choice to remain is no mystery.”

In part, he told the truth.  For all Enjolras’ feigned ignorance to anything more than Grantaire’s status as an omega, however, Grantaire was not wrong, and Enjolras absolutely knew it.  How could he ever have failed to see Grantaire for what he was, and more than that, how on earth had he managed to fool Grantaire into thinking he’d been unaware for a moment much less the months they’d spent in such close quarters?  He knew the scent of omega; like any other alpha he’d caught its pull on the air from time to time since he’d come to maturity.  He was familiar enough with the smell of heat as well, though he’d never gone close enough to it to feel more than slight rush, a burn in his veins and a quick throb of ache in his loins. 

He was always careful to distance himself from that, so far as he could, and he’d been lucky.  He was not ready for a mate in his earliest youth and later, there had come the cause.  So long as France needed him, he had sworn to himself he could suffer no such distraction, no division of his loyalties as he knew must surely come in the aftermath of a bond.  He’d been told by his father as a boy that when he was a man, he could take any omega if he so chose, but he would know his mate to be the one that called to him, that made him burn in his own skin whether they were caught in the throes of heat or not. 

Under the wine, Grantaire smelled like smoke and summer nights.  His dark hair curled in a chaotic mess around his face, his neck below pale and soft.  The first time they met, the first time he drew the scent into his lungs, he ached with the need to mark that stretch of skin, to card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair so very gently before tilting his head back so Enjolras might mark his bared throat and make his claim.  He resisted then, telling himself that to act on instinct alone was the arena of an animal; he was a man of intellect, and he could choose. 

Grantaire was introduced, and though the touch of his hand against Enjolras’ left his mind full of the urge to draw him in, he again resisted.  For the sake of all he had left to do, he could deny himself even that temptation, no matter how hard those denials became.  With the Amis so often in such close quarters, Grantaire was a near constant temptation, hard enough to ignore before they had properly spent time together, when Grantaire had only hovered on the fringes and derided their principles with offhand comments. 

Before long, he came to Enjolras directly, as likely to argue with him as he was to offer his aid(on simple tasks, mind you, nothing difficult, nothing dangerous, nothing that might require he sober up and leave the security of the Musain).  Once they could at least be considered friends in their own fashion, Grantaire grew bolder, and Enjolras’s choice all the more difficult to make. 

Drunk and reckless after many of their friends had finally retired for the night, he would lean into Enjolras’ side as close as he dared, fingers tight on his bottle as he resisted the urge to reach out. 

_Can you not feel it?  Are you so blinded by your ideals you will not take even that which already belongs to you?_

Each and every time he did so, it grew harder to push him away.  Now, with what could only be the beginnings of heat insinuating its way into the scent he’d grown so accustomed to, Enjolras’ hand closed on Grantaire’s shoulder a bit more roughly than he intended to as he forced him aside. 

“I have no time to debate with you tonight.  This must be finished.”

With a heavy sigh, Grantaire slid to the floor, the table scooting irritatingly backwards for a moment until it was flush with the wall as his weight came to rest against the nearest leg.  Quill poised above the map, Enjolras glanced down to find him looking up through dark lashes, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“As you said, I have nowhere else to be.” 

Enjolras’ throat tightened, and he clenched his hand against the urge to let his fingers rest a moment on those disheveled curls. 

“If you aren’t well-“

“Oh I’m well enough, for the time being.  Do you think at my age such a thing would be new to me?” 

Teeth clenched so tight he felt his jaw might break, Enjolras said nothing. 

\--------

Alone, in the darkness before sleep took him, Enjolras could permit himself sometimes to wonder.  Grantaire’s words came back to him, wrapping around his thoughts like vine, constricting their progress. 

_Do you think at my age such a thing would be new to me?_

He had spoken of the trials of enduring a heat only; surely he had.  To carry the reference further than that was unthinkable, to imagine him being taken by another, to have ever had any claim over him even if it had been impermanent.  The very thought carried deep pain, a searing cut to accompany the wild snarl that rose unuttered in his chest.  An alpha without the lasting tie of a bond would have felt no responsibility to him, would have used him and taken his offered loyalty without condescending to give a damn bit of their own.  They would have owed him nothing, could have caused him pain, certainly would not have showed an ounce of concern.  Enjolras know those facts as absolute; he had seen them for himself.  Unbound omegas on the streets were shuffled from alpha to alpha like slaves, sometimes with children in tow, children that were then often taken from them and sold in seedy transactions while the one that bore them suffered through the most blinding stages of heat, unable to care for them, unable to know of their absence until they were gone. 

To imagine such horrors happening to Grantaire was more than he could bear. 

He sat up in bed, blankets falling around his waist as he tried in vain to rid himself of the images that assaulted him by rubbing at his temples.  The need inside him that he’d grown to live with squirmed still with the new life it had taken on earlier that night at Grantaire’s scent, needling him and keeping him from sleep.

_If he has been ill used in the past, all the more reason for you to care for him properly.  Would you deny him that?  Would you fail him, Enjolras?_

“Would I fail all who depend upon our cause for the sake of one man?”  His whisper grated on his own ears in the silence, harsh and raw and devoid of his usual eloquence.  Here, his audience had no need of charm.  “You have never denied him your protection, and for now, that is all you can offer.  France has the greater need; you know this.”  Spoken out loud, he was sure the words could settle the restlessness stirring under his skin.  Instead, his conflicted mind latched onto the half-truth of his protection.  It was true he allowed Grantaire a place among them, true that no matter his drinking or his derision for the cause he had never sought to cast him out.  Compared to what they _could_ have been, it was meager at best.  If they were bound, Grantaire’s place among them could be questioned by none, his place at Enjolras’ side a given rather than an assumed inconvenience.  It was a matter of status and respect and yet more, and Enjolras swore to himself once again that someday, they would have it. 

When the revolution had succeeded, when the people of France were free of tyranny and oppression and all were able to exercise the basic human right to live above squalor and in equality, from that day, Grantaire would have him. 

“If we could be so lucky as to make it that far.”  For that whisper, softest of all, he had no answer. 

\--------

Two days later, the scent that heralded Grantaire’s impending heat was so strong it clung to Enjolras’ clothes long after he’d left their room in the Musain to return to his own.  His nerves seemed cut to a razor edge, his hands just shy of a tremor on the pages of the letter he read. 

Impatient and furious at himself for the distraction from his work, he stripped out of his jacket to at least rid himself of the closeness of his collar, following with his shirt soon after.  Bare to the waist, he finally managed to carry on for some time, long enough that he could allow himself to give up, to blow out his candles and collapse onto his bed in the corner. 

He had barely lain back before his fingers fumbled hastily to unfasten his trousers, and he groaned quietly as his fingers wrapped around his already half hard cock.  In the moments he took his own pleasure, there was no need for pretense, no need to shield his own desires.  He let his eyes flutter shut, his breath already coming short and fast.  He could imagine just how Grantaire might look given over to passion, hands clenched in the sheets and head thrown back as he keened.  In heat he would be so very needy, nails clawing at Enjolras’ back to draw him closer, small whimpers breaking free as Enjolras mouthed hungrily at his skin. 

When he came, spilling hot over his own fingers, he gasped Grantaire’s name.  When his body trembled after, it seemed more a response to the word itself than the work of his hand. 

\--------

Thus far since he had known him, Enjolras had only permitted himself to break the careful distance he tried to keep between them and hold Grantaire close only once, a night he was almost certain Grantaire didn’t even remember. 

He’d come to Enjolras’ room, and he’d settled down next to the fire with his wine and interjected comments here and there as Enjolras worked on his latest pamphlet until in frustration, he had shoved his own chair back and gone to join him by the fire. 

Pleased to have drawn him, Grantaire smiled at him, setting the bottle down finally to cross his arms loosely against his chest. 

“You protest, but you know I belong here.” 

“Of all omegas, how in God’s name I could have come to deserve being saddled with you I cannot imagine.”  They were the kind of words that when said he wished he’d kept behind his tongue, born of the sharp cruelty every angry man is capable of but, as he believed, good men come to regret.  No matter how his anger at Grantaire might flare on occasion, he had never wanted to be cruel. 

He had shut his eyes at first, momentarily shocked by his own viciousness before he forced himself to look.  The words had cut Grantaire, that much was clear at a glance.  The smile he wore was bitter, and he unfolded his arms to take the bottle up again. 

“Grantaire, I-“

“No, no, do not apologize; I would not make you a liar for my sake.  You meant every word.  I should instead give my apologies, for being such a poor prize.  You had hoped for a fellow revolutionary, I might imagine?  A man like Courfeyrac, perhaps?  I see how close you are to him; I’m not blind.  Beta though he may be, I’m sure there are omegas like him, somewhere in Paris.”   He finished off the wine, held the bottle up long enough to be sure he’d caught every drop before setting it down unsteadily to the floor, uncaring when it tipped to its side.  “Forgive me my existence then; without me, you might have found one more worthy.” 

Enjolras simmered with conflicted rage, unsure if he was angrier at himself for his callous outburst or Grantaire for his rambling self-pity.  With a sweep of his hand, Enjolras caught the wooden chair closest to him and snagged it aside, sent it tumbling across the floor.  It wasn’t quite as violent as the throw he’d restrained, but enough to take the edge of anger from his touch before he dropped to a crouch and reached out to catch Grantaire’s hands.  His grip was tight to begin with, though he squeezed a little tighter when Grantaire first refused to meet his eye. 

“It is not I that derides you, you deride yourself.  I have never thought less of you as a man, I only compare your behavior with what I know you could become.  You are capable of more than you know.” 

Grantaire’s laughter was tired, too exhausted to be mocking even had he meant it to be.  His hands rested passively in Enjolras’ grasp, content to be held without making so much as the twitch of a fingertip to return the gesture. 

“That is precisely your problem, Enjolras.  You believe all the world capable of more than it knows, more than it is.  As for me, I believe in truth.  There are good men, occasionally there are even great men, but they are the minority and the laws of mathematics must prevail.  Men will always strive for power, always hunger for the security it brings and so if your revolution does succeed, its life in the grand scheme of the world will be short; it will fall, as every democracy before it has fallen.  Democracy must depend on the kindness of man, Apollo, and so it will never thrive, for the human race possesses no such abundance of kindness to feed it.” 

He’d heard similar speeches before but never so softly, never so weary.  This was not the mocking front Grantaire brought with him among the Amis de l’ABC, no, the bitter words came from his heart, more painfully than he would ever permit in the company of others. 

Enjolras shook him lightly, drawing him to focus.  “The beauty of humanity, Grantaire, is that we can change.  Man has come so far already, do you think sympathy for others will be as difficult to cultivate among us as that?” 

“Harder.  We are not sympathetic beings.”

“And yet you have one before you; explain to me-“

“No, no; you cannot be counted, not among men.  You are a rare specimen indeed; utterly inhuman.  You-“  Grantaire drew his right hand from Enjolras’ grasp, drink making bold enough to reach, fingertips tracing Enjolras’ cheek for only an instant before he realized his lapse and pulled his hand back as if he’d been burnt.  “Like Achilles, you’ve been dipped in something the rest of us can never touch.  Those like you come once in a dozen lifetimes, Enjolras, and if your beloved people’s republic is a short lived thing, you will be but a season in it, if that.  And so I watch, and drink enough wine that on some nights, I might forget how many days have already passed.  If I fail to keep proper track, the end doesn’t seem to rush toward us quite so fast.”  

To that, he had little refutation.  In his own heart, he’d long known his own statistics for survival.  The rebellion he believed in, every last part of him was sure of it, but that there would be losses he was certain.  He would never ask any man to pay a price he would be unwilling to pay himself, and it had certainly crossed his mind that even victory might not mean a world he lived to see.  The likelihood of his death had never done a thing to lessen his desire; he did not fight for himself, he fought for France. 

Even so, to see such pain in Grantaire’s eyes at the thought of his death rattled him, and he settled in against the wall at Grantaire’s side.  For some time he still spoke of his certainty for change, though he spoke in a soft voice utterly unlike their usual debates and equally far removed from his near nightly speeches at the Musain.  When Grantaire faded into the sleep of the drunk, as he’d known he would, his head came to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder, and he let it stay.  When that light point of contact seemed not enough, he shifted until his arm could slide around Grantaire’s shoulders, easing him to rest half against Enjolras’ chest. 

The warm weight of him there was a jarring reality after so long spent avoiding it, but he could not deny its perfection.  He fit into Enjolras’ arms as if he’d been made to rest there(and he had, of course he had).  Overcome, Enjolras had pressed his lips to Grantaire’s forehead, breathed him in until he found his voice.

“Just for tonight.”  He was never certain whether he spoke to himself or to Grantaire, but though he fell asleep for a short time against the wall, he woke with an aching back and stiff legs long before Grantaire rose from his drunken stupor.  Enjolras extracted himself carefully and took to his own bed for the brief time that remained before the dawn, leaving Grantaire sleeping by the dying embers of his fire.  If Grantaire remembered a moment of that night, he had never showed a single sign. 

Enjolras, on the other hand, remembered it often, largely in his own sleep.  Though his dreams could and occasionally did carry him through depictions of pleasures he’d never actually known, the dream of Grantaire he had most often would have seemed comically chaste to most men and yet, he always woke with his breath catching in his throat. 

In sleep, his defenses against his deepest desires unguarded, he dreamed again of the pressure of Grantaire against his chest, of how it had been to hold him close and fall asleep assured of his proximity and safety, how he had fit like an extracted piece into Enjolras’ arms. 

When he woke from those, no matter the time of night, there was no more sleep to be had. 

When the dream came to him with the scent of Grantaire still hovering faintly in his room, he got up and went to peer down into the street.  The blue of approaching dawn lit the horizon, and as soon as he finished dressing he took the street for a walk, unheeding the misty chill of early spring. 

\--------

From the moment he approached the Musain the next evening, Enjolras knew matters had changed.  He’d never been so aware of anyone’s presence as he was Grantaire’s then, his skin prickling with a kind of heightened perception he’d only felt the hints of before.  His muscles seemed suddenly wound tight, like a cat ready to spring, his heart rate rising anxiously.  It seemed clear Grantaire’s heat was finally beginning in earnest.  For a moment, Enjolras considered not going in at all.  It would be a test of self-control like he had never faced; already he could see it would be more than enough to test his considerable restraint.  He had almost convinced himself of the wisdom of retreat, was in fact half turned already when his mind fully caught up to exactly what Grantaire’s presence in the café at that moment could mean.

He was probably upstairs, likely drunk, windows open, and though the effect was far more pronounced on Enjolras than it would be on any other alpha, he would not go without notice. 

The itch under his skin had found a focus, a desire strong enough to rule out turning around.  Grantaire should have been locked in his room, should have planned for this as most unbound omegas did.  Instead, he’d come out into the open, and it hardly mattered if his intent had been to find Enjolras or not.  He wasn’t safe, and the more time passed, the less likely he was to realize it.  Something that felt more feral growl than human protest rose in Enjolras’ chest, though he bit it back, unsure if his rage was for Grantaire’s foolishness or the alphas who might come for him. 

Inside, he took the stairs at a run.  Grantaire was easy to spot the minute he got to the top, resting in a chair up against the wall.  He seemed even more loose limbed than usual, one leg stretched out before him as he slouched down, arm hooked over the back of the chair.  His eyes had the bright look of the slightly fevered, and he’d undone his cravat and the top buttons of his shirt to give himself more air.  His near ever present bottle was raised halfway to his lips, though it never made it.

“Put the bottle down.” 

He had a moment, maybe, to register the venom in his own voice; by the time he noticed he’d already crossed the distance between them.  From his place at the window, Joly seemed to started toward them only to be held back by a murmur from Combeferre; Enjolras was too distracted to catch their words.  Grantaire did indeed put the bottle down-an act that seemed of great interest to the clawing need that rose stronger in him every moment.  As in the street, Enjolras had never felt his instincts with such clarity, never been so sharply aware of precisely what being an alpha entailed.  The alpha in him, it seemed, had a particular fondness for being obeyed, enough that for a moment, the urge to rake his fingers through Grantaire’s hair and pull him close flitted through his mind. 

Still, his anger was far more insistent, overriding.  He reached out to Grantaire, fingers closing around his wrist to jerk him to his feet. 

“Have you lost your mind?” 

“Truly?  I think I might be in the process.  Enjolras.”  He tipped his head forward on Enjolras’ name, his entire frame leaning toward Enjolras rather than pulling away from his rough grip.  “Will you ignore me now?” 

“Does your foolishness absolutely know no bounds?  Did it even occur to you that anyone off the street could find you here, or were you already too drunk to think that much through?” 

Grantaire’s laughter was soft, broken by the shortness of his breath.  “With how often you gleefully reproach my behavior, what honor do you really think I have left to defend?”

Enjolras took the words like a punch to the throat, too initially crushed by the blow to draw out any words.  His grip was too tight on Grantaire’s wrist and he should’ve let go.  His fingers couldn’t seem to loosen. 

“Do you want to go to them, is that it?  Whoever will have you?”  Where before he’d been just short of yelling, his voice dropped almost to a whisper, harsh and wounded and meant for Grantaire’s ears alone.     

“You know exactly what I want.  It isn’t a matter of who would have me, but who refuses.  And yet here you are.  You would fight for me.  That alone makes coming here worthwhile.” 

He could not deny it, not standing there with his grip so tight around Grantaire his fingers ached.  He hadn’t fought since he was a young boy, caught up in the typical scuffles of young alphas.  Still, it was an easy thing to admit to himself that had he found an alpha in the vicinity other than Combeferre(whose bond to Joly neutralized any potential threat), he’d have fought to protect-

There, his own thoughts drew up short.  He could not call Grantaire his mate, not when he resolutely kept it from being so.  Was his primary goal, then, the fight to protect what was rightfully his or to protect Grantaire from advances he could neither properly reject nor accept?  Both reasons were twined so close together in his mind he couldn’t extricate them, and it troubled him, as instinct often did.  To think of his own rights in a situation like this was selfish; to think of Grantaire, a far better answer. 

He shifted his grip, loosening his hand and letting it slide enough that his thumb pressed lightly against the heel of Grantaire’s palm.  His skin had already begun to radiate warmth, heated and over sensitized; even the slight stroke of his thumb was too much, he could see.  Grantaire’s breath caught sharply and he reached out, his left hand snagging on the collar of Enjolras’ coat. 

“You need fight no one for me, Apollo.  Haven’t I always come to this place for _you_ , from the moment I first heard you speak?  Enjolras,-“

“Joly, I could use your help.”  He spoke just loud enough for his voice to carry, his head turned away toward his friends at the window as he interrupted.  He knew all too well what Grantaire would ask of him, and he could not bear to hear it said.    It was torment enough to control himself, a feat that seemed to both sap his strength and wind him up tighter the longer he maintained it.  To hear Grantaire ask for him, as if he refused simply out of reluctance, _that_ would be more than he could resist. 

The smoldering protector in him would not let him leave Grantaire in such a public place undefended, and yet he couldn’t possibly stay with him for more than a few more minutes at most.  He needed the aid of someone he could trust, and Joly would be the best option of all.  Trustworthy, and he carried enough medical knowledge that if Grantaire’s heat raged too strongly to weather alone, he would know it. 

As hard as it was to pry Grantaire’s fingers away from his coat, it was harder still to let his own grip go.  Without Grantaire’s skin against his, even though it had only been through the touch of a single hand, he felt suddenly off balance.  He dug his key out of his pocket, turning it over between his fingers before stepping closer to Joly, key held out. 

“I will owe you a great deal if you can do this for me.” 

\---------

The heat cycle of an omega came roughly twice a year, with some variation.  During that time, the omega had a brief warning period, a short window in which they felt a shadow of what was about to overcome them, followed by 5-7 days of feverish need.  On the first day, the need was palpable, unmistakably intense.  By the last, if there had been no relief, the omega’s screams of pain and need had often left them hoarse, throat raw as they continued to call out between shivers that racked their weakened bodies.  An unresolved heat was not a pleasant experience, but there had been no deaths of a previously healthy omega ever reported.  Most often, nothing more came of the aftermath than exhaustion and incessant cold, little different from the recovery of many illnesses. 

All of these things Enjolras had read in the medical text Joly had let him skim, and he tried to keep them in mind.  While he walked the streets of Paris, intent to both further the cause and distract himself by keeping busy, Grantaire remained confined in Enjolras’ room.  In the meantime, Courfeyrac had promised Enjolras a place with him for as long as he needed somewhere to sleep.  Nothing about it was ideal, and at the moments when Enjolras argued with himself most fiercely, he clung to the facts he knew-

Grantaire was safe, and he had the other members of the ABC to be certain he remained so.  Beyond that, he was safe in Enjolras’ own room, a last minute decision over asking Joly to take Grantaire back to his own lodging that he was glad he’d made.  It was insane, ridiculous, but if Enjolras could not be with him, at least something of his could be.  It was beyond inadequate. 

In the streets, he pulled himself together, managed to speak with what seemed to him every bit of his usual fervor until the unavoidable moment he realized he missed Grantaire’s eyes in the crowd, missed even his smirking impatience and the way he would sometimes mouth the words of quotations right along with him.  There was little more maddening about Grantaire than his intelligence, a facet of himself that he held close, though he flashed it out with a flourish when he chose to startle those around him.  It amused many of the others, but Enjolras was never startled, never amused.  He’d known of Grantaire’s sharp mind almost since he met him, and the waste of such a gift on alcohol and disuse could only frustrate him. 

On that first day, he missed his damn cynical responses after his speech so much he found himself imagining what they might have been, how he might have countered, how Grantaire’s shoulder would have brushed his as they walked back together. 

On the second day, he still had not mastered the new jumpy itch to his muscles, the tension that never seemed to leave him.  He might not have to experience heat as an alpha, but he’d never been told that living through another’s heat would have a physical effect on him despite the distance, despite their lack of a bond.  It was, he supposed, a little like echoes, shadows of what should have stood firmly in its place.  He could feel Grantaire’s tension as if from the other end of a thin piece of string, remote, but incessantly tugging. 

That night at the Musain he gave up on productivity a little early, settled instead for listening to his friends.  Jehan was deep in conversation with Courfeyrac, and he listened as they spoke, kept listening when Gavroche folded himself into the chair at Courfeyrac’s side so he could make a comment here and there as their talk ranged from the spring air that reminded them of their boyhood homes to what the coming of this particular spring might mean for Paris. 

He was distracted, finally, by Combeferre taking a seat beside him.  They had not spoken since Enjolras had sent Grantaire away.  He had thought, at first, that Combeferre meant to argue with him, but it had never come, his stony silence seeming to be one of indecision.  Whether he could decide to speak up or no, the reproach in his eye seemed clear enough, an intensity to his gaze that Enjolras could feel. 

“If you wish to judge me, Combeferre, speak and be done with it.” 

“No man here doubts your resolve to see this through, Enjolras.  None of us would argue anything other than that you are the best of us all.” 

Enjolras shook his head, stood up just enough to turn his chair so that they might face each other.  “None of that.  Speak plainly.” 

Combeferre tipped his head, conceding.  “Very well.  Your devotion to France and to the cause is admirable, but you are an alpha, Enjolras; that is a fact of nature even your passion for the cause cannot change.  You have other responsibilities.” 

“And what would you have me do?  Cloud my judgment, perhaps, when the time for our fight comes?  Put all our lives at risk for the sake of his?  Do you think _this_ is what _I_ want, that I have no desire to go to him now?  Do you think it hasn’t been nearly every moment on my mind?”  _God_ it had, of course it had.  They, all of them, were willing to believe he had no desires of his own.  In truth, he’d passed the previous night with maybe an hour of sleep, his body too drawn with want to let him sleep but from exhaustion.  “If you doubt I’m aware of that responsibility I assure you, it is a presence I’ve become quite familiar with.  But until our work is done, it can become nothing more than it is.  If I went to him, everything would change.” 

“Everything changed the moment he came here.  You know as well as I do, knowledge in a man’s mind is a force that can never be undone.  Once you knew of him, you were changed already.”  For moment his eyes fell on Joly, caught in a moment of laughter with Bossuet, and though Enjolras had not at all forgotten that Combeferre spoke with experience, it was a reminder all the same.  He had taken Joly to him without a second thought, the moment he knew.  Their devotion to each other was a beautiful thing, and yet it also gave testimony against forming a bond under such circumstances.  They would die for each other; that much was plain.  Enjolras had already devoted himself to the cause he was willing to die for; he could not afford another. 

“Even if I was, even if you are right about that much, everything _will_ change again, and beyond that, how could I bring a child into this, into France as she is?  This is hardly a time for new life when those that we have already struggle so desperately.” 

“You speak of possibilities only; a child may not come for some time.”  Again, as he knew from his own experience.  Twice now Joly had had opportunity to conceive and neither had yielded results.  Neither of them had ever shown any outright disappointment, not at the time, but there was certainly something of it in his eyes then, a flash of interest too strong to be anything but longing.  “A child is blessing, Enjolras.  Is that not a part of everything we fight for, the hope of a world fit for our children, whether we have them yet or not?” 

Rising from his chair, Combeferre’s hand rested a moment on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

“Your choice is your own; you know you have my respect already.  But he calls out for you; you should know that.  And you will be no less our leader if you choose to go to him.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you guys so, so much for all of the amazing comments and kudos and bookmarks...you have no idea how happy all that makes me, :D :D 
> 
> So um, the porn ended up taking a lot more space than I planned? Not that I'm lamenting that at all, just warning you, XD

Enjolras sat turning the key he’d taken back from Joly over and over between his fingers.  He’d told himself when he asked for it that it meant no change in his decision, if anything, he would check in on him only, give himself a moment of reassurance and pry himself away.  He’d done it before; he could manage to do it again.  Those were, at least, his repeated thoughts as he listened to the ticking of Courfeyrac’s clock and watched the play of the key across his fingers by the light of a single flickering candle. 

Even then, he knew the lie of it, the weakness of his own plans.  He could remember perfectly how he’d felt with his hand on Grantaire’s wrist, what it had done to him to see Grantaire’s eyes wide and dark with desire, to feel him lean into Enjolras’ touch even rough as it had been.  To even imagine that look directed at him again made him hot, his cravat suddenly too tight.  No matter what Grantaire might say of him, he was not, in fact, made of stone.  No matter his professed intentions to look in on him and leave, if he went to Grantaire, there would be no turning back. 

His mind was full of tumbling thoughts, threads that grasped for certainty only to be battered back by endless counters.  Combeferre had a point; it wasn’t as if Grantaire had not already invaded his thoughts.  He worried for him, looked out for him, was continually exasperated by him and yet, he could not deny that though he had no way to know for certain of the love a man should feel for his mate, it seemed to him already present.  The bond might increase it, fortify it in his thoughts but no amount of restraint could diminish the feelings he already had.  Worse, perhaps, in all honesty he would have to admit he couldn’t bring himself to wish it was so.  He could still admit it might have been better if Grantaire had never walked into the Musain, but there was no longing behind it, no weight.   In that sense, the damage was indeed already done. 

His balance was precarious.  The more he thought, the less it seemed he stood to gain.  He wondered, briefly, if his thoughts were already too clouded to properly decide.  Instinct could be an insidious, subconscious thing, and the heart wasn’t far behind.  His logic might not be as sound as it seemed then.  (This was, he knew, a rather pointless realization.  If he couldn’t trust his mind, he certainly couldn’t find a way to argue against it.) 

He could almost hear Grantaire calling for him, now that Combeferre had put the thought in his mind.  His voice would by then be ragged with pain, desperate.  He’d heard his name off Grantaire’s lips enough that he could fairly well piece it together, more than well enough to hurt.  In all their time together, every irritating moment he’d hung at Enjolras’ elbow to disrupt him while he worked, he’d never once truly asked him for anything other than this.  Even that plea came only at his most drunken moments, appealing to Enjolras without much real hope for recognition that already should have been his. 

It was that thought that wedged in his mind the most deeply, needling him until he stood.  Pocketing his key, he leaned over to blow out the candle.  If he went quickly, he could get home before dawn. 

\--------

Outside the door, he could easily hear him.  They were tired noises, nothing like the sounds he had to have been making hours before and nothing like the ones that would surely come after he got some meager snatch of sleep.  Enjolras wasn’t sure which would have cut more sharply into his chest, only knew that when his palm pressed to the wood of his door and he heard Grantaire whining softly, he cursed himself for not coming sooner.  Just like that, any last thought he might have had of leaving was gone. 

He twisted the key quick in the lock, barely pushed it open enough to slide through before latching it closed behind him.  The fire had burned down, leaving only the dim light of early morning to filter muzzily through the cracks in closed shutters.  The light was so low it was hard to see, his eyes still adjusting, but he could make out the shape of Grantaire stretched out on his bed, blankets a tangled mess all around him. 

Grantaire rose up on his elbows, a move that seemed to take true effort.  He peered into the darkness, chest heaving sporadically as he fought to make his breaths deeper and less shallow, likely intent on the scent of Enjolras he must have caught on the air. 

“Enjolras?”  He said it with a strung out incredulity Enjolras was fairly certain only Grantaire could have managed, and it brought a smile tugging to his lips as he shrugged out of his coat to drape it over the back of his chair.  His waistcoat followed, dropped into the seat with less attention.

He didn’t answer then, didn’t answer with words at all but instead went to the bed without bothering to remove anything else save his shoes, and for once, did precisely as he wished.   He could see clearly enough then to find that Grantaire was bare from the waist up, his trousers only barely hanging on and already unfastened.  His right hand came to rest solidly over Grantaire’s heart, and he buried his left in those dark curls to pull Grantaire’s mouth to his.  With one knee resting on the edge of the bed as he leaned in he had the advantage of height as well as the advantage of surprise, two marks in his favor that he hoped might make up for the fact that he had no practical knowledge of what the hell he was doing. 

He had witnessed many kisses, had read of everything that could follow, but there was only so much to be gained from observation.  At any other time, he might have overthought it, might have felt more of a flutter of nerves but the desperation was too great to concern himself with anxiety; he knew only what he wanted.  He’d so long imagined the taste of Grantaire on his tongue that it seemed the most natural thing to take advantage of the way Grantaire’s lips parted in invitation almost the instant Enjolras’ mouth settled over his.  He tasted less like wine than Enjolras had expected, his usual cravings having been driven out by the overruling need that consumed him.    Though he had nothing to compare it to, it seemed to Enjolras a better taste, purely Grantaire. 

Grantaire’s hands scrabbled for a grip on his shirt, anchoring him close.  He moaned into Enjolras’ kiss, the vibration of it bringing a spike of pleasure.  If his inexperience was showing, Grantaire it seemed didn’t currently have it in him to care. 

When they broke apart they stayed close, Grantaire nuzzling against his cheek, lips damp and breath hot.  “ _God_ , Enjolras.”  He left kisses everywhere he could reach, something so beseeching in the way he traced Enjolras’ jaw that it drew a swell of protectiveness from him, prompting him to slide properly onto the bed and cover Grantaire’s body with his own.  That was better, so much better, let him pull Grantaire into his arms and bend down to mouth at his collarbone.  He tasted like sweat and something he could only describe as lust, salty and sharp and wonderful.  Grantaire arched against him, panting, and Enjolras could feel the hard line of his cock already pressing eagerly into the thigh he slipped between Grantaire’s legs. 

The air was thick with Grantaire’s scent, so heavy that Enjolras was sure he could feel it not only in his lungs and burning in his throat but pressing into his skin, seeking absorption.  For the first time, he made no attempts to mediate its dizzying effects.  Instead he bit down on the soft skin of Grantaire’s neck that had so often teased him, felt Grantaire’s pulse jump against his tongue as he sucked hard, marking him, soothing the burning desire to unmistakably lay his claim. 

Grantaire cried out, hips jerking desperately against Enjolras’ thigh.  The open front of his trousers had slipped down and through the fabric of his own Enjolras could feel the dampness as the tip of his cock leaked, close already after long hours without proper relief.  Without an alpha to sate their needs, an omega in heat might come, though the act brought them no true release of the tension that shook them.  They were forced to suffer not only the need of a mate but their body’s refusal to be even temporarily soothed by any other hands, including their own.  The difference could be scented, could be sensed in ways beyond full understanding; nature could not be fooled. 

Enjolras shifted, giving him firm pressure to rut against.  The feel of Grantaire writhing under him was intoxicating, but he could not allow himself to take him just yet, not when he had yet to properly acquaint himself with so many even simpler temptations he’d long denied both of them.  Everything was new, like the feel of Grantaire’s ribs under his fingers, one hand mapping the chest pressed so close to his by feel as he turned to catch Grantaire’s lips in another kiss. 

This kiss was far messier, slick as Grantaire suckled eagerly at his tongue, roughened by the occasional nip of Enjolras’ teeth.  Kisses strung together between heavy breaths, only broken when Grantaire turned his head to moan Enjolras’ name.  The constant movements of his hips stuttered as he came, his body shuddering before going momentarily utterly pliant in Enjolras’ arms.  His eyelids fluttered, his breath erratic, and when he did turn to look up at Enjolras it was with such reverence Enjolras felt immobilized by it.  Grantaire swallowed hard, already shifting slightly again under him, though there remained a new looseness to his limbs he could not have had in his previous pained tension. 

“My Apollo.”  He murmured, voice low with mingled desire and exhaustion.  His fingertips traced Enjolras’ face in far more detail than he’d dared try that night by the fire, finally coming to rest with his thumb tracing the dampness of Enjolras’ lower lip, slightly swollen from their kisses.  “Such beauty.  It isn’t fair.  This will be a cruel dream to wake from, though I suppose I shouldn’t complain.  For the moment,-“

“Do I feel like a dream to you?”  Enjolras caught Grantaire’s hand where it still rested against his cheek, turned his head to first press a soft kiss to Grantaire’s palm before sliding down farther, biting sharply at the inside of his wrist.  Grantaire squirmed, pressing into Enjolras’ hold only to shiver when his tongue lapped softly at the reddened skin, soothing any pain that might have come from the bite.  Grantaire was beautifully responsive, head tipped back against the pillow as he offered himself up in the hope that he might be wrong, might not be dreaming after all.  Under his jaw Enjolras could see the mark he’d left there, already a dark bruise, and he dipped his head to kiss it tenderly. 

“You have always been mine.”  The truth of it seemed to radiate from his bones, spreading to encompass him fully now that he’d set it free.  Before, his eyes had roamed Grantaire with the kind of jealous desire reserved for impossibilities.  With Grantaire spread out beneath him at last, he seemed instead a priceless work of art revealed to Enjolras alone, full of colors and lines only he could properly comprehend.  If anyone else had had him, they had, at least, never properly seen him, not the way he could.    All the same, he growled at even the brief thought, a rumble that vibrated in his chest and led him to sink his teeth lightly into his neck again.  Grantaire was his, _his_ and no other’s; it seemed then as blinding a certainty as his belief in the cause.  Grantaire nuzzled against his cheek, turning toward his touch as he always did no matter what form it took.  The stubble he’d been unable to shave since his heat began scraped against Enjolras’ skin and he groaned, clutching Grantaire close. 

He had never felt so torn between give and take, his desire for tenderness towards this man who looked at him as if he shouldn’t be allowed pressing hard against the primal need to possess, to bury himself inside Grantaire until he could get no closer. 

Grantaire’s hand pulled away from his grip to join his left in exploring Enjolras’ body, sliding Enjolras’ shirt up to press against the small of his back.  His hips jerked forward in response, rolling to rub his cock against Grantaire’s hip.  Grantaire whimpered, nails digging sharply into his skin as he pulled Enjolras’ shirt up high to bare more to his touch.  His hands were electrifying, both the slide of his palms and the catlike scratches he trailed up either side of Enjolras’ spine.  His lips brushed the shell of Enjolras’ ear, and he whispered his name there, slipping out between the kind of breathless, needy sounds Enjolras had allowed himself to imagine days before as he tried to slake his own distraction in that very bed. 

His imagination had not done their effect hardly enough justice. 

Feeling fevered himself, he gripped hard at Grantaire’s hip as he kissed him hungrily.  It didn’t silence him, and Enjolras realized dimly he would’ve been disappointed if it had.  He fed on Grantaire’s desperation, drank greedily from his mouth as his hips took up a steady grind.  He wanted too much, enough that he could feel the hand that gripped just below Grantaire’s hipbone nearly trembling.  If he followed his will he would take Grantaire like this, face to face so he could swallow the cry that would surely come when Enjolras entered him, so he might hold him close and see the look in those dark eyes as the bond overtook them both.  His heart craved the connection, but the alpha in him knew better.  This first time more than any other, the tie that could only come during an omegas heat would last long enough to make such a position impractical.  To join with Grantaire he would, ironically enough, first have to pull himself away. 

He kissed his way back down Grantaire’s neck, going further than he’d ventured before, far enough down his chest to capture a nipple between his teeth to suckle.  Grantaire thrashed against him, his grip on Enjolras’ shoulder blades so tight Enjolras was fairly sure he could feel blood welling around the tips of his fingers(not that he minded, not at all). 

“Please, please, _God_ , Enjolras, have mercy, _please_ -“

Enjolras gasped, his cock twitching eagerly at the pleading so clear not only in his voice but in his body, Grantaire’s legs spread wide around him as he offered himself up.  Enjolras’ body burned, his hands moving to push himself up on the mattress before he even fully realized it.  Neither of them could wait any longer, no matter his other desires. 

Panting, he sat up on his heels to unfasten his cravat and shirt buttons with trembling fingers.  Grantaire was spread out before him like a depiction of sin, his cock flushed and hard as it rose from his loose trousers to rest against his belly, his eyes glazed with desire.  Enjolras licked his lips, moaning softly at the lingering taste of Grantaire and sweat they carried.  If he looked any longer, he might lose the tiny semblance of reason he had left.  He looked down at his hands instead, watched their maddeningly inept progression on his buttons. 

“Get those properly off and turn over for me.” 

“You say that to me, and you expect me to believe you not a figment of my dreams?.”  With Grantaire, there was always some form of rebuttal, always a comment even when he acquiesced(which he did, rapidly, wriggling completely out of his trousers before shoving them to the floor). 

“Hush.”  Enjolras let his shirt fall behind him, moved back and off the bed to stand only long enough to unfasten his trousers and drop them.  On the bed Grantaire had done just as he asked and he lay tense and waiting, his hips working slowly against the blankets.  Enjolras knelt between his thighs, on impulse reaching out to tug Grantaire up to meet him, wrapping him in his arms, his back pressed to Enjolras’ chest.  The jolt of purely skin on skin was magnificent, and Enjolras reveled in it, turned his head to press his lips to Grantaire’s temple.  “I’m here.  I’m right here.  Can you suspend your doubt to believe that much?” 

“You are ever the exception, aren’t you?” 

Enjolras’ cock rubbed against the cleft of his ass, slick with Grantaire’s need.  The urge to thrust inside nearly overwhelmed him, but he kept himself in enough check to slide a hand between them first, to slide two fingers past the quivering ring of muscle.  Grantaire keened, his head falling back against Enjolras’ shoulder as he struggled to take Enjolras’ fingers as deeply as he could.  The clench of such wet heat around his fingers was maddening enough; to think of it around his cock almost too much to contemplate.  When he slid the third finger inside he could feel Grantaire’s body shivering, a soft mewling noise rising near constantly from his throat as Enjolras spread his fingers.  Enjolras ached to yank his hand free and push inside, forced himself to keep his fingers at their task another moment at least with the knowledge of the potential size of the knot that would hold them together.  He had never experienced it himself having never bedded an omega in heat(or anyone at all for that matter), but he knew enough to know that on the unprepared, it could be a painful experience.  For all the world, he would not cause Grantaire pain, least of all at a time when he should be providing only pleasure. 

“Are you ready for me, Grantaire?”  The words alone were a mix of lust and honest concern, fingers stilled and ready to slide free.  His thumb brushed teasingly against the rim of Grantaire’s entrance, caressing. 

Finally driven beyond retorts, Grantaire pressed against him so tight that at every other point, they seemed fused together.  Grantaire’s chest heaved with effort of holding position, failed only with hips that couldn’t stop rocking down onto Enjolras’ fingers.  Enjolras pulled his hand free, leaving a comforting kiss on Grantaire’s shoulder as he used his slippery hand to slick his cock.  At the loss of even that insubstantial fullness, Grantaire squirmed impatiently.  Guiding his cock with the grip of his hand, Enjolras pressed inside, buried deep in a single thrust due to Grantaire’s eagerness.  He had tried, at least, to take that one movement slow, but he needn’t have worried.  Grantaire’s body welcomed him, and Enjolras gave himself wholeheartedly over. 

He locked Grantaire against him with one hand at his hip and the other arm around his chest, his hold possessively tight as he mouthed at Grantaire’s neck and shoulders, half kissing and half biting his way across his beautiful skin.  For a man who’d so studiously struggled to master his instincts, it was a bit remarkable how quickly they rose when he let them, how fully his mind narrowed to the urge to hold his mate tightly while he took him.  Beyond the haze of pleasure, his only other coherent thought was a surge of pride at the way Grantaire moaned for him, so weak with his own pleasure he could hardly do more than reach back to hold on to Enjolras any way he could. 

Enjolras’ hips found a natural rhythm suited to their eagerness, snapping quickly forward with shallow thrusts.  He was close already, so very close, and he loosened his grip on Grantaire’s chest to slide his hand down and wrap his fingers around Grantaire’s straining cock.  Above all else, an alpha took care of their mate.  Grantaire’s release was more important than his own, enough that he could distract himself enough to hold off for its sake, though it didn’t take long.  After only a few strokes of his hand Grantaire came for him, slicking his hand as his body clenched down tight on Enjolras’ cock, triggering his own surrender.  He came hard, crying out as the first wave overtook him only to slide into lower moans that turned to panting as the base of his cock began to swell.  Grantaire gasped, almost seemed to struggle against the sudden pressure as his body adjusted.  Instinctively, Enjolras bit down on the back of his neck, gently, his tongue laving softly at the skin between his teeth.  Grantaire settled, calmed by an ancient reassurance that ran so deep it came without question, as simple as shushing a child. 

As his knot filled to the point of locking them tight, Grantaire’s body rippled around him, milking another spurt of fluid from his cock and drawing a moan from his lips, this time shaping around Grantaire’s name.  Having never experienced the sensation of a knot at all the first stirrings of the bond took him by surprise then, the rise of all-encompassing warmth first seeming nothing more than the bliss induced by the strongest orgasm of his life.  The prickling, sudden feeling of an insatiable itch under his skin drew his mind out of its fog of sensation and desire, gave him enough focus to recognize the sensation as the one he’d felt the night he met Grantaire, magnified and distilled until it almost crossed into pain. 

Grantaire’s hands had slid from him to rest limply at their sides but he reached for Enjolras then, right hand curing around the back of Enjolras’ neck to pull him down into a kiss.  It was slower than any they’d had yet, deliberate and lingering in a way far different than their earlier frantic efforts.  After, Enjolras kept his eyes shut tight, only centered in a world that seemed to spin impossibly fast by the feel of Grantaire’s breath against his lips. He’d thought only days before outside of the Musain that he was more aware of Grantaire’s presence than he could ever possibly be of any man, but it was nothing on the to the shift that washed through him then.  He could feel Grantaire’s heartbeat, could hear how it aligned just right with his own, how the tether that bound them both was no longer a flimsy, distant thing but an anchor, solid and sure and resonating so strongly that he could for a moment sense the depth of Grantaire’s joy. 

Their bond settled, the world ceased to tilt, and Enjolras opened his eyes to see Grantaire smiling exhaustedly, head resting on Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“What _have_ I done to you?  I think I must concede defeat.  I doubt even the sort of dreams my mind stirs to press on me in heat could have imagined you would ever look at me like that.” 

“I see you the same.”  His lips barely stirred with the whisper, his attention still absorbed by a sparkle in Grantaire’s eyes that no amount of alcohol had ever inspired. 

Grantaire laughed softly, gently dismissive.  He reached up to push Enjolras’ hair back off his forehead, let his hand linger there for a caress of his thumb against the corner of Enjolras’ eye. 

“I feel I’ve corrupted one of the host of Heaven.  I suppose it matters little; God hardly had designs on my soul as it stood already.”

“You don’t believe in God, Grantaire.”

“No, I don’t.” 

Enjolras closed the gap between them, seeking a kiss.  Grantaire met him willingly, his fingers moving to tangle pleasantly in Enjolras’ hair.  Between them, where they remained tied, Grantaire’s muscles coaxed come from him again and Enjolras shuddered.  Grantaire took advantage of his distraction to take control of the kiss and plunder his mouth and Enjolras bowed to his lead willingly, humming into his mouth in warm approval.  When they broke for air Enjolras guided them both to lay down against the mattress, twisting his arm to reach around them until he found the least tangled blanket to cover them with.  Grantaire fit so perfectly against him, snug against his body as they spent the time of their tie in languid kisses, Enjolras’ hand ranging slowly up and down every inch of Grantaire’s body he could reach. 

When the tie ended and Enjolras’ cock slipped free, Grantaire turned almost instantly in his arms, sighing contentedly when Enjolras pulled Grantaire half on top of him without ever breaking their kiss.  His weight was more than welcome, the sensation enough to spark a fierce flash fire in Enjolras’ chest that seemed full of more tenderness than passion though it burned just as strongly.  He had dreamed of such a fantasy a hundred times. 

He had work to do; he was lucid enough to realize that.  There would be no going to the Musain until Grantaire’s heat was over but there was much he could do from his desk alone, a move that would require little of him.  He would still be nearby when Grantaire woke needing him; he would not have to choose between either duty and yet…

He ran his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, craned his neck forward to kiss the top of his head. 

“Rest.  I’ll be right here when you need me.” 

After so many fairly sleepless nights, he was sure he could justify sleeping for a time with Grantaire in his arms.  The rest would be good for them both, and later, after a second round, he would feel more comfortable leaving him to sleep on his own for a while. 

Grantaire curled around him, the painful tension so thoroughly removed from him that he seemed to melt against Enjolras, pliant and trusting.  How such a justification would have sounded to his own mind mere hours before, he could hardly bring himself to care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I lied, this will be three parts, lol It's just, this got so much longer than I thought it would be and I thought, it's long enough to be a segment on its own, and you guys were so awesome and I hate leaving you waiting, and....it'sahappymiddletogiveyoubeforeIcrushyourhearts
> 
> *hides*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...ok so i am a lying liar who lies because once again, these scenes got longer than I thought they would, lmao but seriously, there's not much left so...next part will be the last. XD (sorryI'mnotsorry I am having way too much fun writing this)

For the next three days, they lived in what felt like another world entirely.  Enjolras did manage to work, a little, but if he was not drawn back to the bed by Grantaire stirring he sometimes could not resist going back of his own accord, his attention span short so long as he remained in a place that smelled so thoroughly of Grantaire and sex.  When he gave in he would strip naked again before slipping beneath the blankets, impatient enough in his desire to draw Grantaire out of sleep by tracing his spine with kisses.  It had long baffled him that Grantaire thought himself ugly, before he’d had the chance to see him in full.  Now that he had had the pleasure of seeing Grantaire spread out on his bed, sunlight dappling against his chest while he slept, he knew it to be absolutely preposterous.

Still, Grantaire refused even that correction to his stubborn opinions.  He would smile, reach to pull Enjolras in for a kiss to distract him before he muttered, “I told you, the bond clearly affects your vision.”. 

They grappled with each other like lions at their most desperate times, made love with less ferocity when the burn under Grantaire’s skin lessened enough for them to slow.  Every time, Grantaire clung to him with a need beyond that born from his heat alone, and Enjolras felt himself broken open before him, his soul drawn by the bond past every barrier he might have tried to keep it behind to lay itself willingly into Grantaire’s hands.  An alpha belonged to their mate as surely as their omega belonged to them, a fact he had known but never truly understood.  Trembling, his face buried into Grantaire’s shoulder as he breathed deep against skin he’d begun to memorize, he was beyond certain that the sensations that overtook him as they lay together were more than the product of Grantaire’s heat, more than the novelty of previously unknown pleasures.  The rush that came with Grantaire in his arms was one that could never fade. 

On the evening of Grantaire’s fifth day, Enjolras ventured out long enough to bring them back stew and bread.  His first trips for food had more harried, too distracted to have truly enjoyable results but the stew was warm and thick and hearty.  Grantaire as a matter of course had to point out that it would bolster their stamina; from his desk where he ate while reading, Enjolras smiled without raising his glance. 

When they had both finished their meal, Enjolras settled against the wall with Grantaire straddling his lap, his arms around Enjolras’ neck as they kissed.  Enjolras could feel a new sense of control in him, his desperation beginning to wane.  By the morning, the fever would likely have left him.  The thought did not quite seem the relief he’d expected it to.  He seized Grantaire’s hips to pull him just a little closer, letting go with a soft gasp as his mind caught up to his hands.  Just that afternoon he’d found bruises just above his hipbones, an all too perfect match to the shape of Enjolras’ fingers.  It was one thing to mark each other, small matters like the bruises he’d sucked onto Grantaire’s skin or the shallow slashes he knew had to crisscross his back, yet a bruise that came from his hands seemed something different entirely, dangerously close to a line he would not cross.  He’d said nothing, not at the moment he saw them, but he’d pressed his palm warmly against the left side as he kissed Grantaire’s chest, and he’d sworn to himself to be more mindful of his strength. 

He wasn’t off to the best start. 

Caught up in his own thoughts as he was, he started a bit when Grantaire’s fingers linked with his as he drew them back to his hips.  He leaned in without letting go, and Enjolras could feel him smiling against Enjolras’ jaw as he kissed him there. 

“Come, Enjolras.  I won’t break.  You needn’t be careful with me.” 

“In your current state, you are hardly the best judge of-“

Grantaire’s mouth descended on his, distracting him thoroughly with his tongue, teasing first with a tentative probe at his lips before opening to Enjolras fully. 

“A little pain can be a good thing; you worry too much, as you often do, though never about topics that are deserving of such preoccupation.  You’ve never laid a hand on me in a way I didn’t welcome; I don’t believe you capable of anything less.  So stop your mind, will you?”  His lips meandered down Enjolras’ neck, only coming up again to let him bite gently at his earlobe before he whispered, “As enjoyable as that great brain of yours might be in a debate, I presently have no use for it.” 

Enjolras could hardly help but laugh, a short burst of it that did seem to ease the tension in his jaw he hadn’t quite realized he held.  His fingers flexed gently on Grantaire’s hips, and Grantaire let go of his hands, trusting them to stay. 

“So I am inconsequential to your needs then?  A voice behind a puppet?”

“No aspect of you could be deemed inconsequential.”  His voice already came a little stilted, too affected by the slow grind of their hips.  When Enjolras’ tongue lapped at his collarbone, all hope of any further retort was lost.  He groaned, tangled his fingers in Enjolras’ hair to hold him in place just there, encouraging him to suck and tug the skin between his teeth.  “Your mouth will be the death of me.” 

“Do I hear complaint?”

“Resignation.  Utter acceptance.  I go gladly to my fate.  Enjolras-“  He rose a bit on his knees, his words cutting off as he bit his lip at the feel of Enjolras’ hands sliding farther back, a fingertip sliding across his already slick entrance.  He followed through on his anticipation, shifting his own hips below so Grantaire could align just right with him. 

“ _Yes_.”  He used his hands as a guide only, let Grantaire control the movement as he sank down onto Enjolras’ cock.  His moan was muffled, lip still trapped between his teeth, and Enjolras let go of his hips to take Grantaire’s face in his hands and kiss him, soothing the slightly bloodied lip with his tongue.  Of all that he had come to appreciate in the days they’d spent locked up together in that room, he’d found that kissing Grantaire was something of an unexpected pleasure.  It was altogether far better than he had imagined, the slide of tongue and tug of teeth, their mingled moans and cries, the heat and intimacy and breathlessness of it.  He could never have enough, certainly not with Grantaire tight around his cock, driving him near mad with pleasure; _those_ kisses were better than most, peppered with Grantaire’s whimpers and the moments he himself had to turn away, panting too hard for breath to focus on anything else. 

Grantaire controlled his own movements and Enjolras’ hands roamed where they would, across his back and shoulders and chest, curling for a moment around his cock to feel Grantaire’s body jerk against him.  When he came, it was off Enjolras’ cock alone, his hands having slipped down to rub at Grantaire’s thighs.  His release coated both their stomachs, and though Grantaire slipped a hand between them to wipe weakly at Enjolras’ skin he only succeeded in spreading dampness and making his fingers sticky.  Achingly close, Enjolras pulled that hand to his lips, and he came with Grantaire’s fingers in his mouth.  The taste on his tongue was good enough; the sound of Grantaire swearing as he cleaned him with his tongue almost better. 

Shaky and weak limbed, Grantaire took his knot with only the softest whine, his arms wrapping tight around Enjolras’ neck as Grantaire relaxed against him.  Enjolras’ hands rubbed absently from his back to his ass, pausing to knead here and there as the aftershocks of his orgasm rocked through him.  There was an exhausted peace to moments like that, a hazy bubble of time in which Enjolras could hardly think beyond Grantaire and the anxious pressure that eased in his chest so long as he could hold him close.  It was marvelous, a slow burn of pleasure, and though none had lasted so long as the first, it ended then all too soon. 

It felt like hardly a moment before he was sliding free, the knot that tied them having begun the process smaller than before.  Undeniably, their time was almost up.  Undeterred from his position despite the lack of a concrete reason to stay, Grantaire nestled against him.  Enjolras pulled the blanket higher around them, let his fingers resume their trail down Grantaire’s spine. 

“Our time here comes to an end.”  He all but whispered, not entirely sure he should speak the words yet at all, not sure of much beyond the knowledge that thus far, they’d inhabited a world that could not exist.  Whether he desired it or no, words would have to come. 

“It doesn’t have to.”  Enjolras could feel his smile, Grantaire’s face buried as it was against his neck.  “I would be happy to live out my days in your bed, provided you could bring us some wine.” 

“Grantaire.” 

“I know, I know, you’ll hardly touch more than a glass yourself, but if you’d let me get you drunk just once, I-“

“ _Grantaire_.”  He shook his shoulders slightly, gently.  With an overly heavy sigh, Grantaire pulled away enough to face him.  “How many times have I told you?  I can’t give what you would ask of me.  You know I can’t.” 

“Oh?  And what is it I ask of you?  Tell me, if you’re so enlightened.”  There was a cutting sharpness to his words, the kind of edge Enjolras had rarely heard.  The drink, it seemed, had only served to soften the blows.  Without the dulling weight and slight slur of wine, they stung him. 

“I meant only that-“

“That you came here out of pity?  Your inflated sense of morality, perhaps?”  Grantaire turned away, the brief glint Enjolras had seen in his eyes vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.  Still, neither of them could effectively practice even such a meager form of hiding from the other, not anymore.  He could feel Grantaire’s pain in his own chest, jagged and fresh.  “It’s an impressive sacrifice of your time; you have my thanks.”  He moved to pull away but Enjolras caught him, both hands on Grantaire’s wrists. 

“Stop it.  I never denied you out of any lack of feeling; that much should be clear to you now.  You exaggerate your own baseless fears.  I was wrong to lie to you before, but you lie to yourself now.”  He took a deep breath, let the rest rush out together.  “You know I love you.  You must know.”  It was not so hard to say as he had thought it might be.  The truth of it made it simple; the only difficulty was his lack of understanding as to why he’d needed to say it at all.  They shared the same bond.  If he remembered so vividly how it felt to lie side by side and soak Grantaire’s adoration into him like sunlight, how could Grantaire have mistaken _his_ feelings for anything less?  Was his disbelief great enough to overshadow such a force? 

He was quiet so long Enjolras was about to try again, scraping his mind for what he might should have said instead.  Before he could determine, Grantaire’s quiet voice broke the silence. 

“Against your better judgment, Enjolras.  You may love me, but against every scrap of reason you possess.”

“There is nothing of judgment or reason in love.”

“The dozens of marriages arranged every day would speak against you.”

“And I say again, there is nothing of such considerations in love; I said no word on the arrangements of those who play politics and the games of society with their beds and those of their children.” 

Grantaire’s short huff of breath skirted close enough to laughter to mark that Enjolras had won his point.  Progress, at least. 

“You have lost me, then.  What is it you think I would ask, beyond the ability to keep what I’ve gained these past days?” 

He hardly knew where to begin, knew only that of all he had ever believed the role of a mate entailed, in his position he was hardly fit for any of it.  His father had been so very good at standing by his mother, a legacy that was both blessing and curse.  He’d grown up in a loving family, but with the life he’d chosen he’d have little chance to put such examples into practice. 

Enjolras let his head rest back against the wall, his eyes closing.  “I swore myself to the service of France years ago; I cannot betray that duty now, not when the need of the people is so great.  Not for you, not even for a child, though I might welcome both.”  It was truer than he’d ever thought it might be, before.  After the bond had settled between them, his thoughts had seemed to settle into symmetry he’d simply been unable to glimpse.  He need not fear his potential status as a new father any more than he should the force that bound him to Grantaire; both only served to underscore his aspirations.  He would make a better world for them both.

“By all laws of nature you are owed my first allegiance but I cannot give it.  Beyond that, all that I do have to offer is yours.”  Even then, he could feel the two loyalties roiling in him, twined like vipers.  No matter their struggle, _patria_ was ever the victor, even if he could feel that now, her triumphant constriction around his heart would bring a little of the sickness of her venom with it. 

“At times, I swear to God you speak as if I know nothing of you.”  The tense distance he’d kept ever since Enjolras had kept him from moving entirely off his lap faded.  He shook Enjolras’ grip easily enough, his hands pressing instead to the wall on either side of Enjolras’ head.  “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I don’t actually stay in such a state of constant drunkenness as to be oblivious to those around me.  I know you, Enjolras.  At times, better than I think you know yourself.  Observation does wonders for a man’s bank of information.  I never doubted for a moment the power your blessed revolution holds over you; how could I?  No; my needs are not that grand.  I ask one thing.” 

Grantaire’s eyes seemed an even richer blue in the candlelight, accented by the dark in a way that enhanced their beauty in an altogether different way than the sun.  Enjolras reached out, his heart settling when Grantaire allowed his hand to rest against his cheek. 

“Name it.” 

“Tell me I have a place with you, now.  I would ask no more of you than that.” 

Enjolras’ mind flashed back to a vision of Grantaire slumped beside his fire, drunk and half pleading in that mocking tone of self-protection. 

_You protest, but you know I belong here._

His fingers curled against Grantaire’s neck, thumb stroking the line of his jaw.  “You told me once you belonged here, with me.  I should have told you then, you were right.”  

“It is enough to hear you say it now.” 

He leaned in and Enjolras tipped his head forward just enough, their foreheads resting against each other.  He could feel Grantaire’s breath against him, easier now but still not quite steady.  Enjolras squeezed lightly at the back of his neck. 

“You will stay with me from now on, then?”

“I have stayed with you since first I heard you speak.”

“ _Here_.  I’ll admit it isn’t a home, but-“

“If you will have me.” 

“I’ve done that already.”  Less accustomed to the use of innuendo than Grantaire he could feel his cheeks color, just a bit, but it was worth it to hear Grantaire laugh, to feel his lips against his cheek as he murmured, ‘So you have.’. 

\--------

By the morning, Enjolras could smell the change in the air.  He felt clear for the first time in days, his mind unfettered by impulse, and he breathed deeply as he stretched, mindful of Grantaire’s head pillowed on his chest.  With Grantaire’s heat having receded, Enjolras could begin to take proper inventory of all the bond had altered in him.  Even without the pull of heat Grantaire’s scent certainly seemed deeper to him somehow, layered, and though it pulled on him still it seemed both stronger and easier to resist.  The desire had increased, but the anxious urge to lay claim had vanished.  Grantaire was his; he had taken him thoroughly and could easily do so again.  There was peace in the realization that settled him, forced him to concede once again that perhaps before, he had been wrong. 

Enjolras ran his fingers through Grantaire’s hair in an attempt to rouse him slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp.  Grantaire hummed contently, his grip tightening as he drowsily burrowed his face into Enjolras’ chest. 

“Grantaire.”

He heard him; Enjolras could see it in the slight tension across his shoulders. 

“You can stay if you like, but I must see Courfeyrac and Combeferre before tonight; they will have news I need.” 

“Then you could receive it tonight, could you not?”  His voice was scratchy with sleep, still muffled against Enjolras’ skin.  He had been right, too, to conclude there would be little change in his feelings; the exasperated affection that filled him was utterly familiar. 

“There are other contacts I might reach as well, news I can gather for myself.  I have been out of the world long enough.”  Taking Grantaire’s hand, he peeled it away from where it was tucked just under his ribs.  Grantaire acquiesced well enough, allowing himself to be moved so Enjolras could roll out of bed.  He’d had little need for clothes recently but they were easy enough to find, his trousers near the foot of the bed where he’d always stopped briefly to be rid of them before rejoining Grantaire in bed.  His shirt wasn’t far from it, and though his cravat proved more of a challenge he found it near the window.  He opened the shutters before he tied it, the pink light of dawn guiding his fingers.  The streets of Paris were a beauty to him in every form, but they always seemed transformed in the light of a new day in ways that arrested him, kept him drawn to the view of rooftops and alleys.  To his right, a little boy sat huddled against the corner of an inn, feeding crumbs off his hunk of bread to a cat with scraggly fur. 

“Sunlight suits you well, Apollo.  As it should.” 

Enjolras turned away, blinking away the sting of the light, to find Grantaire watching him, curled on his side.  The open appreciation in his eyes was enough to make him look away, fingers worrying at the knot of his cravat he knew he’d already tied.  His coat and waistcoat were hung across the back of his chair, and he didn’t look up again until he had pulled them on.  He straightened his coat twice, took a deep breath before again looking into eyes that continued to undress him, to call him back to bed. 

He compromised, going back only to pull Grantaire up enough that he could kiss him.  It was a brief, the press of their lips and a fleeting taste before he pulled away. 

“You could come with me.” 

“And you could stay.  The probability of both is the same.”  Grantaire kissed the corner of his mouth, squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder before pushing him away.  “Go to your people, then.  I am sure you have been missed.”  There was no anger in it, no honest reproach. 

At the door, Enjolras stopped with his hand on the frame.  “I will see you tonight, at the Musain?”

“I would never miss it.” 

\--------

They adjusted to life in each other’s space with an ease that made Combeferre smile and Jehan ramble at length about the inescapable nature of fate, how it upheld beauty and tragedy both.  Grantaire smirked and passed Jehan his bottle, meeting Enjolras’ eyes across the room as he did.  Enjolras might not quite have smiled, but Grantaire found what he looked for all the same, content to lean back in his chair and return his attention to the friends around him at his table.  Nothing had changed, nothing and everything. 

The chill of winter returned in full force briefly near the end of March, and Grantaire grumbled about the distance of Enjolras’ bed from the fire, about the draftiness of a lodging house built for students and the thinness of Enjolras’ blankets.  Enjolras had never spent much money on the place; what funds he could gather he put to better use in their cause.  For Grantaire’s sake, he stoked the fire as well as he could, though in the evenings at the café his pointed comments about the hardships of the poor could hardly go unnoticed.  To his mind, their possession of a room and a fire and a bed left them little to complain about in a world where so many could not even boast of those simple protections.  In the middle of the night with Grantaire in his arms, he pointed out that it was not even properly winter; the light snows that fell were nothing but a dying gasp.  Next year, if he wanted, they could perhaps buy a quilt.  He said it, and he meant it, and Grantaire accepted the proposition, and still the specter of summer hung unspoken around them. 

At the meetings of Les Amis de l’ABC Enjolras spoke freely of the opportunity that loomed before them, of Lamarque’s failing health and all that the people stood to lose without him to fight for them any longer.  He would not last the summer, and they would have no better chance to stir the people than his loss.  All revolved around that point and yet in private, they spoke nothing of it at all, spoke instead of the future as if it existed with certainty, as if they had embarked on a life of some distance.  In the back of his mind, Enjolras’ thoughts were riddled with numbers, probabilities.  They would lead the assault, throw themselves into becoming the very first front line of an all new war.  Battles, he knew, were begun by the front and won by the reinforcements.  Thus it had been at Waterloo and nearly every fight since the dawn of man, and thus it would be again.   They would have a chance, of course they would have a chance, but the odds would never be with them, not for their own survival. 

It never profited a man to speak of the likelihood of death, only the likelihood of hope.  Despair was paralyzing; hope energizing.  They both knew their circumstances, and no more need be said.  Even Grantaire, so vocal about their folly at meetings largely restrained himself in their bed, in words whispered on a single pillow as they huddled together still warmed from their love making. 

“You’ll permit me a quilt?  Such extravagance.”

“I would think your wine would keep you warm enough.”

“Perhaps I haven’t had enough.”

“I doubt such a thing could be said of you over the age of twelve.”

“I don’t think the others appreciate how vicious you are.” 

“No?  Perhaps I reserve venom for you alone, have you thought of that?” 

Chuckling softly, Grantaire kissed him. 

\--------

With April, spring came in earnest, full of rain and intermittent sunshine and the gathering of guns.  Enjolras had made a good contact that had provided well for them, and as his stockpile grew so did his resolve.  They were close, so very close.  Some afternoons on the street he could feel the weight of unrest pressing on his shoulders, so strong he thought at times he could taste its bitterness.  With the return of warmth to the world they could better draw and hold crowds with their speeches, and every week he and his friends reached new audiences.  He had never been more certain of their success, and he told the others so.  Soaked in absinthe, Grantaire called out that to find their true supporters they must halve at least those they had counted, that commitments were never more easily made than by a heart stirred to cheer by the madness of spring. 

They bickered as harshly at times as they ever had, their debates heated though neither ever gained any ground.  Courfeyrac muttered once that he wasn’t so sure Grantaire didn’t provoke him to rage on purpose now that he stood to benefit, and though Enjolras pointedly made no comment, there might have been a shred of truth.  Enjolras certainly wouldn’t put it past him, and it was true that no matter the words they fired at each other over tables at the café, they ended every night at home together.  Some nights, they’d be on each other the minute they made it through the door, hands rough with lingering frustration at first until it seemed to bleed out around their edges, their touches gradually gentling until he was stroking his fingers through Grantaire’s hair as he knelt before him, Enjolras’ cock in his mouth.  (The first time Grantaire had gone to his knees for him, it had been in response to a remark Enjolras had made that evening on how he only opened his mouth to cause trouble.  Enjolras’ own knees had grown so weak he was sure he wouldn’t be able to move an inch from the door for a long time.) 

Others, he’d manage to snap at enough of a sore point that Grantaire would stay late and proceed to get fantastically drunk even by his standards, but even those nights he never failed to find his way back, even if he was staggering through the door in the dark with a ridiculous racket.  Not that it mattered; Enjolras no longer slept well in his absence.  He would lie awake instead, eyes closed so as not to watch the door, muscles tensed as he waited for the sound of boots on the stairs.  Getting the boots off might take a few attempts, but once he did would fall into bed, rolling over to find Enjolras’ arms waiting for him. 

Until one night in late April, when hours passed and he had not returned.  They had fought, but it had been no worse than any other.  Always, they fought like perched sparrows, jabbing and tearing at each other’s wings before shuffling close again to groom them straight.  That Grantaire would come to him was a certainty he would have never thought to question.  He lie awake for some time in waiting, eventually falling asleep briefly due to exhaustion.  He worked hard and long hours; sleep was often in short supply.  Once he was out he rarely woke till morning, but alone, he started awake not long after he’d passed out, waking with a sense of urgency that had him rising up on his elbows.  The bed was still empty beside him, the building quiet, his chest writhing with anxiety he couldn’t place.  In a heartbeat, he was out of bed and pulling on his clothes. 

At this late hour the Musain should be empty, but with the use of their back staircase unregulated by the proprietors, Les Amis tended to come and go as they pleased.  There was at least a chance he was still there, that he might have merely passed out on the floor and been left to sleep off his drunkenness.  Enjolras reassured himself of that as he dressed, throwing it up as a wall in his mind against more sinister thoughts.  They refused to be silenced, however, drifting around the edges like smoke.  If Grantaire was in the Musain, safe and sleeping soundly, why would Enjolras feel such tension, like the tugging of fear that was not his own?  The streets of Paris were certainly not safe after dark, and though he knew his way well enough if he’d left too drunk to defend himself…

“You do him no service by worrying.”  He muttered as he tied his boots, shook his head to try and clear it.  Worry was not a luxury he could afford; he needed focus.  All else could wait, both worry and the anger that briefly bubbled in his throat.  There would be no such mess to face if Grantaire kept his head about him, but that, too, was a sentiment best put on hold. 

The night air held a chill, but it wasn’t cold, a fact for which he was instantly grateful.  Still, the recent rains had left everything damp from the walls to the cobblestones.  He sat off first purposefully for the Musain, intending to reach it as quickly as possible, though he had not gone far when he stopped himself short.  If he was safely indoors, he would be alright.  If not, it he needed to be found quickly.  In such a situation, logic was actually of less use to him when he had other, more fine-tuned advantages.  He knew Grantaire’s scent intimately well, was connected to him by a bond that would give him some idea at least of proximity.  If he could use them, his instincts would serve him better. 

He combed both sides of the street, ducking into alleys to squint into darkness while he took deep breaths that mostly afforded him lungfuls of refuse and wet animals and smoke from small fires.  Here and there, he caught the trail of another alpha or omega, distractions that made him grit his teeth in irritation.  Once, he heard a peal of laughter that chilled him.  He had no proof the woman was a danger to anyone, but the prospect was enough to bring to mind flashes of Grantaire weakened and alone, and he redoubled his pace. 

He did not catch a hint of Grantaire’s scent until he was almost to the Musain, close enough that he’d become distracted by the thought that since he was almost there he should probably check it first before he doubled back, possibly saving himself some time.  It came to him on a breeze, initially slight, and he turned into the wind and followed it down the street, his heart racing with the surety that yes, yes he’d found the place. 

Grantaire hadn’t made it far from the café.  He leaned against a rough, dirty wall, on his knees with his forehead resting on one trembling arm.  If he’d noticed Enjolras’ approach, he gave no sign, didn’t so much as raise his head to look until Enjolras was on the ground beside him, arm wrapping firmly around his shoulders.

“What in God’s name are you doing out here?  I-“

Grantaire’s left hand rose weakly into the air between them as if to tell him to wait, though he formed no proper signal before giving up and grasping at the front of Enjolras’ shirt, twisting it between his fingers as he learned farther forward to heave up hardly any liquid with a disproportionate amount of effort.  It didn’t matter that he apparently had little left in his stomach to lose, his body seemed on the verge of bringing up his stomach itself. 

The harsh tirade Enjolras had been building up to faded, and he moved closer to press his hand against Grantaire’s forehead.  He felt cool enough, though in the dim glow of the streetlight he seemed ghostly pale.  When he let go of Enjolras’ shirt to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, the tremor in it was impossible to miss. 

Enjolras rubbed gently at Grantaire’s spine, and asked the least violent question he could manage.  “Can you manage to tell me why on earth it occurred to you to leave the café in this state?”  if he was going to be this ill, he could have at least done it in familiar surroundings, in a place where Enjolras or one of their friends was sure to find him soon enough. 

Grantaire swallowed, grimacing.  “I left for your sake.  I had thought you might worry if I never made it home.” 

“Indeed.” 

“I was sure I could make it; I’ve never-“  He had to pause, his insides rebelling against him again, though briefly that time.  “Haven’t been sick from wine since I was a boy; never like this in any case.  Dinner might have-“

“What of it?”

“Wasn’t hungry.  Couldn’t eat.  I don’t know.  But it’s never like this.  I was sure I could make it, but I got here and every time I try to stand …”  He shivered, breathing heavily like he thought he might be sick again at the very thought.  After a moment, he seemed to get it under control.  “Enjolras, something’s wrong.”  _There_ was the fear he’d felt, bursting forth for a moment so broadly that Enjolras felt its flash before Grantaire seemed to draw it back down to a size manageable enough to bury.  He was still drunk enough that his words slurred a bit, and still he managed to sound like a lost child.  “I’m sorry.” 

Enjolras leaned forehead against Grantaire’s shoulder, a comforting anchor.  “Shh, don’t worry about it just now.  If I help you, do you think you can stand?” 

“No.”  He shook his head once, even that movement leading him to press his lips firmly together.  “Not yet.” 

“Very well.”  He eased out of his crouch, sitting down on the damp, grimy stones.  It would soak through his trousers soon enough, but he hardly cared.  He rubbed small circles against Grantaire’s back, bowed too taunt beneath his shirt.  “We can wait.” 

“I would have come back.  I could not have you think-“

“I know.  Whether or not your logic is sound no longer keeps me from understanding it; troubling as that might be.” 

Grantaire heaved ineffectively, his hand again grasping for Enjolras’ shirt in his efforts.  Enjolras caught his hand and clasped it instead. 

\--------

“Courfeyrac, if you could-“  The hand Enjolras absently held out was filled by the sheet he’d been tallying pistols with before he could finish asking, though when he glanced back to thank Courfeyrac he found Gavroche instead, straddling a chair backwards as he leaned forward onto the slats.  “Gavroche.  Thank you.”

“There as many as you thought?” 

“Enough for now, I think.  Every shipment counts.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Gavroche nod, his foot absently kicking against the side of the chair as he watched Enjolras repack the crate.  He squirmed, shifted his grip a dozen times before finally scooting the chair noisily forward.  “Enjolras?” 

“Mm?” 

“I can help.” 

“I know; you already have.  I’ve seen you in the streets, you know.  You do a fine job.”

“ ‘s not enough.  When we fight, I can help you, swear I can, swear you won’t regret it; I’m good in a fight!  Had to be, where I come from.” 

Enjolras leaned heavily on the crate he’d just closed, eyes closing for a moment before he turned to face the boy.  He crossed his arms over his chest, regarding him seriously. 

“Tell me, why do you come to me?  Did you speak to Courfeyrac?”  Despite the lack of blood between them, they were all but brothers.  He cared for Eponine, and she for him, but he fairly worshipped Courfeyrac, and it was no surprise.  His father had hardly been bothered to notice his existence; in all his life, Courfeyrac was likely the first man to take any proper notice of him at all, much less show him any affection.  Gavroche followed him with all the jubilance of a pup, and Courfeyrac welcomed him with open arms.  Combeferre had remarked once that the boy could hardly have held Courfeyrac’s heart more if he’d been his own, and not a one could dispute it. 

The twist of Gavroche’s hands on the rungs of the chair as his eyes fell was all the answer Enjolras needed. 

“As I suspected.  And what did he tell you?”

“Two years at least.”  His mouth twisted in distaste around the words, lamenting as if he spoke of a prison sentence.  “But it’ll all be over then!  Now’s when you need me.” 

“We already have you, and if you joined us, who would fill your shoes, hm?  What other boy could we trust so well?  Who would bring us the news, Gavroche, if not you?  I assure you, we would be quite lost.  You serve the cause; do not doubt your worth, to any of us.” 

From across the room, Courfeyrac called him and Gavroche slid gracefully off the chair, arm still hooked over the top as he looked up at Enjolras with eyes that seemed a little less despairing.  “But in a couple years, if you still need…”

“Then you will stand with us, you have my word.”  Accepting that, Gavroche mumbled a quick, ‘Thank you, sir.’ before heading off to answer his summons.  Enjolras, caught in watching him go, started a little at the sound of Grantaire’s voice behind him. 

“A toast, to your diplomacy.” 

The bottle of wine hovered at this shoulder, Grantaire’s eyes questioning as he held it out.  Enjolras took it to grant him a single sip, hardly more than a mouthful.  When he gave it back, the firm press into Grantaire’s hands made it clear one was plenty. 

“What did you expect?  You think I would arm a child?” 

“Some say you arm a roomful of children.  Not-“  He held up his hand to stave off any protest, though his pause was slight.  “-that I am among them.  Optimistic fools, perhaps, but we are all old enough to choose our fates.” 

“We?”

“Of course.  I might not be an _optimistic_ fool, but I can make no pretentions at sanity when I gladly throw my lot in with all of you.”  As he spoke he sat the bottle down, leaned across the top of the crate so his arm could brush Enjolras’ shoulder.  “You are good with him.  Patient.”

“At patience, I’ve had ample opportunity to practice.” 

Grantaire shoved him, hardly enough to sway his shoulders.  “Enjolras the longsuffering.  You realize, the trials I cause you might help you qualify for sainthood.   You should thank me.”

“Thank you.” 

“Somehow I question your sincerity when you say it like that.” 

“As well you should.” 

“For my part, I meant precisely what I said- you are good with him.”  His voice dropped so low Enjolras could scarcely hear him above the noise of the café, though they were hardly a foot apart.  “I could not help but notice.” 

Enjolras’ heart skipped, his throat tight as he fully grasped Grantaire’s meaning.  He had watched Enjolras with the boy not to see his patience or merely to appease his fascination for Enjolras’ every move, but as an omega assessing the suitability of his chosen mate.  He had read in school that in nature, an omega wolf would vigorously fight off all suitors they had not seen successfully rear pups.  Advanced though the human race might be, there remained always a touch of their roots, innate questions that ceaselessly sought their answers.

Beyond what Enjolras had said on the last night of Grantaire’s heat about his dedication to the cause, they had spoken not a word about the possibility of a child.  For a young, healthy omega with no children, the odds of a birth were incredibly high, made so by the very nature of an omega’s biology.  With only twice a year at most to conceive, their bodies were formed with the ability to well utilize such a chance.  All of this he had known, had partially feared until he had spoken to Combeferre. 

 _Children are a blessing, Enjolras._  

He hadn’t been wrong, and at the time, it had been enough to placate his worries for the life a child might face in such a climate.  His thoughts at the time, however, had not been fully clear.  He’d failed to question his own abilities, or more pointedly, his own lifespan.  A blessing a child might be, but one that brought with it a host of responsibilities.  Already, his life burst at the seams with responsibilities.  And still, as ever, despite his cultivated control, he was no more immune to his nature than any other man. 

He understood the heavy weight such a change would bring, but as he turned to meet Grantaire’s eyes, the concept seemed not such a bad one after all.  To have a boy of their own perhaps, a child that just might embody the middle ground between their two tempers, or, just as likely, see the world through a lens entirely their own…

Enjolras cleared his throat, turned fully to mirror Grantaire’s position, his arm now stretched out alongside Grantaire’s atop the crate.  “I have your approval, then?”

“You have always had it.” 

Enjolras studied his palm, the grain of the wood, anything but continue to see the intensity of emotion in Grantaire’s eyes.  It was not his love that unnerved him, not anymore, rather it was the violence of it, as unrestrained as a horse at full gallop, lost in the kind of fervor that could lead them to fling themselves off a cliff after their stallion.  It was too much to give such devotion to a single man, or so he told himself.  Truthfully, it was only the cliff he feared. 

“Do you know yet?”  He could say it no more directly than that, not with the words sticking in his throat like briars. 

“No.  Don’t worry about it.”  Enjolras took a breath, tried to buy himself a moment to choose his words.  _It isn’t worry, not in the way you might think; to be the father of your child would an honor; it is only the summer that gives me pause._   He took too long.  “Come.”  Grantaire nudged his arm, drawing Enjolras’ eyes back to his.  “I assume we can’t keep these here.”  His knuckles rapped the side of the crate, and he smiled when Enjolras nodded.  “I’ll help you.” 

\--------

“I need to speak with you.” 

Joly nodded, took the pipe out of his mouth to gesture at the chair across from him.  “Of course.” 

Enjolras drew the chair in close the table before taking a last look back over his shoulder.  The others were all arrayed around Combeferre, mostly listening.  Grantaire and Bossuet were deep in their own conversation, passing a bottle.  Over his own loosely clasped hands, Enjolras briefly met Joly’s eyes. 

“It is a private matter.”  He could hardly help but say it guilty, his voice falling.  This place was meant to be separate, dedicated to their work, but the nagging in his mind had finally driven him to distraction.  His concern would not be dissuaded on its own, leaving him with little choice. 

“Grantaire?”

“Isn’t it always?”  He shook his head, his fingers tightening.  “He’s not been well.  The wine makes him sick often enough in the past two weeks that he’s actually begun to moderate his drinking.  We rarely dine together but from what I can see his appetite is poor; when I question him he does nothing but put me off.  You know how he is; there’s no talking to him if he won’t have it.”  The words tasted bitter, ringing in his own ears too like justification.  As he had known he would be, he had felt at odds with himself ever since he went to Grantaire in his heat.  He had not the time to devote himself properly to a mate, and he no longer had the ability or desire to pull away.  It was maddening, a swarm of guilt and frustration and love. 

“The maladies that spread through this city are almost without number; if-“

“No, no he doesn’t act…”  Description failing him, he merely shook his head again.  “Other than what I’ve told you, he seems himself.  A bit withdrawn, perhaps, but not from me, not unless I pry.”  Which he did altogether too infrequently.  When he chose to rise to the occasion to the best of his ability, drawing information from Grantaire was as impossible a prospect as prodding a mule. 

“If you believe him to be alright, then-“  Joly’s fingers tapped on the stem of his pipe, eyes narrowing a moment.  With a last strong draw of smoke, he pulled it away from his lips, shuffling the stem absently through his fingers.  “Enjolras, what are you asking me, truly?  A confirmation of your own suspicions, or do you suspect him of dabbling in a habit beyond his alcohol and absinthe?” 

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Enjolras glanced reflectively over his shoulder.  Grantaire was snagging a paper out of Jehan’s hands; by the sound of their scuffle he seemed to be on the verge of reading an unfinished poem.  He was sufficiently distracted, and Enjolras still hardly knew how to begin.  He had the facts, as he knew them-

It had been nearly two months since Grantaire’s heat.  His behavior had changed, subtly at times, but it was visible.  He was more apt to forgo his corner and sit in the thick of the group, less eager for a meal and at times almost careful in his drinking after a few nights of sickness so terrible he woke still pale and weak.  With Enjolras, he had not changed, but all the same, they were signs. 

“Far enough along, his scent will change.  The alteration in body chemistry eventually rises to a level easily detectable by any alpha or omega but you will know it long before.  Have you noticed-“

“No.  No, not yet.”  That the ‘yet’ seemed to him the only possible end to that sentence was really answer enough.  He tapped his fingers on the table, a distracted drum beat.  Joly gave him all the time he needed, smoking until he’d finished his pipe.  Enjolras’ rhythm slowed.  “Am I wrong?”

“On which count?” 

Confused, Enjolras looked up. 

“I say this not because I am opposed to being in your confidence, but Enjolras, I am not the one you need speak with on this.”  He spoke gently, reached across the table to stop the ceaseless drumming of Enjolras fingertips by squeezing his hand.  “Although as you have, I would tell you that I expect I owe you congratulations.” 

Enjolras rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, sure for a moment he could still feel the grit of the gunpowder he’d helped move that afternoon. 

“Thank you.”  He could only hope Joly heard him; he hardly heard himself. 

\--------

Enjolras had left with Grantaire that night with every intent of broaching the subject, but then they were home and Grantaire was sliding off Enjolras’ coat and it seemed so much easier to wait, to let the coat drop and take Grantaire’s face in his hands. 

When he did find the nerve to speak it came to him suddenly, burning in his throat like a hot coal he was powerless not to release.  That was perhaps the only way, for them.  They lay side by side, his hand roving Grantaire’s chest idly as they kissed.  He was just pulling away, kissing down Grantaire’s jaw with the intent of finding just the right spot where Grantaire never failed to cry out for him, when his hand came to rest over Grantaire’s abdomen.  It had happened countless times before and no doubt would again, but that latent, nagging thoughts he’d danced around for days struck him hard, the sudden tension freezing him in place.  His breath caught, and he spread his hand more purposefully, his palm a firm point of contact.  Grantaire’s slightly ragged breathing stilled, and suddenly, the question he’d meant to ask changed. 

“How long have you known?”  With his cheek brushing Grantaire’s, he could see nothing of his face, could feel only the way he held himself, tight as wire. 

“I suspected weeks ago.  I’ve seen others.  Considering both the symptoms and my likelihood, it seemed a reasonable conclusion.” 

Enjolras leaned back enough to face him, though he stayed pressed to Grantaire’s side.  His hand moved not an inch. 

“And you chose not to tell me.” 

“In the midst of current events, with the revolution bearing down on us?”  He tried for lighthearted, lost to the pull of gravity.  There was rare seriousness in his eyes, a dark edge that seemed almost hunted.  “No.  You carry enough weight; I would not put more on you.” 

“Our child is not-“

“Please, I didn’t choose those words so you might soothe me; I told the truth.  I have no doubts on your capability to be an excellent father provided you had the opportunity, but there’s no denying it a hardship, not as things stand.  And you cannot tell me you would have sought it out.”  He could have only guessed at the look on his face, then, but it brought him Grantaire’s touch, his fingers tangling lightly in Enjolras’ hair.  “It’s alright.  But if you honestly wish to talk about this, Enjolras, we had best be honest.” 

Normally, of the two of them, Enjolras was the proponent of honesty.  He nodded his agreement, lapsing into silence as he considered.  Of its own will, it seemed, his thumb stroked slowly across Grantaire’s belly, his hand still. 

“Your point stands, as to the timing.  However, I came to you.  No argument could be made that either of us were ignorant of the possibilities.  We, each of us, made our choice.  I’m fairly certain Courfeyrac would name that a sound argument against the idea that neither of us ‘sought it out’.” 

“Fair enough, though you do not account for the circumstances.”

“An inevitable end, only.  I have come to accept what you tried to show me almost the day we met.” 

“Are you admitting I’ve taught you something?  God above.”  The smile that tugged at his lips couldn’t last, a failure more revealing than his whispers had been yet.  His hand slid from Enjolras’ hair, his arm folding to rest beneath his own head as his gaze turned to the ceiling.  “As you say, then.  We chose our path.  So I will ask you only once, for I already know your answer.”  He closed his eyes, unwilling, it seemed, to have even the chance of catching Enjolras’ response.  “We don’t have to stay in Paris.  There are others cities, other towns, we could take to the countryside for all I care and come back in five years, but this change you seek, it doesn’t have to be now.  It doesn’t.” 

He could imagine it, the world Grantaire spoke of.  He could still write, elsewhere.  Keep up with the others in letters, put together well planned pamphlets.  He could watch Grantaire paint, keeping quiet in the background like he must if he wanted to watch his artist at work.  The moment he interjected, Grantaire always stopped.  He had not had a horse since he was boy but farther from town, they would have the room, could have a little piece of land.  He could teach his child to ride as he had learned, bareback, fingers twisted in rough mane. 

“Lamarque slips further from us every day.  It must be now.  There will be no better opportunity than this.” 

“Yes.  I know.”  Grantaire smiled, strong enough this time to last.  He unfolded his arm, reached down to twine his fingers with Enjolras’ against his stomach.  “In that case, we do our best.  I see no other course.” 

Enjolras kissed Grantaire’s shoulder, lips lingering before he moved to rest his forehead just above where they had pressed.  “I am sorry for none of it.  You must know, it is only my inaction I regret.” 

“I obscure your judgment.  Once, you might have been sorry.”

“You know better than to attempt a respectable argument with such hypothetical questions.”  Enjolras curled tight against Grantaire’s side, nuzzling into his neck.  “I cannot regret you.  Not now.” 

Grantaire’s breath stirred his hair as he kissed the top of Enjolras’ head.  His fingers squeezed gently at Enjolras’, a hold that last even as he drifted off to sleep in the ensuing quiet.  Though it was some time before Enjolras joined him, even in sleep, Grantaire did not pull his hand away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this falls under the heading of “Stuff I never thought I’d research but now have because of fic” (lmao)
> 
> After some digging, I found that it was not determined that alcohol was dangerous during pregnancy until the 1890’s, so there'd have been no way for Grantaire to know continuing to drink could be dangerous...he knows only that if he cuts back, he throws up less, X.X


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing and I fail at judging length and that is all I can say right now, lmao Just, all of you reading this, thank you, and I'm so glad you're enjoying it, <3

The first breath of summer came to Paris not long into May.  It was still a tentative thing, a mix of blessedly warm days and still cool ones, but change was coming.  On the warmest nights they would open the shutters, letting in the breeze and the starlight.  From the street below came the occasional nicker of horses, the clatter of hoof and wheel on cobblestone but by the time they slept it was often easy enough to ignore.  Still, sound carried, a fact Enjolras tried to keep in mind.  In bed with Grantaire, quiet was harder to manage that he might once have thought.  Grantaire was as mindful of propriety as he was just about every other convention of society; Enjolras at least made an attempt.  With Grantaire’s mouth around his cock, however, pulling his scattered thoughts into some form of cohesion was quite the struggle.   

He brought the hand that didn’t hold the back of Grantaire’s head to his mouth, biting down on his own wrist to muffle the moans he struggled to restrain.  Grantaire pulled away with a last swirl of his tongue, sliding up Enjolras’ body to tug his arm away.  He kissed the fresh mark, his voice thick with lust as he spoke.

“Let them hear.  Let them know what I do to you.” 

In moments like that, he found it hard to deny Grantaire anything.  His hips rolled, his cock sliding wet against his belly in a way that made him gasp.  “ _Grantaire_.”  He was too close for protest, his mind too full of the ache for Grantaire’s tongue against him, for the way he knew he would swallow greedily as Enjolras came down his throat. 

“Shall I continue?”  He turned his head enough to take Enjolras’ thumb into his mouth, sucking lightly until Enjolras gave in, tipping his head back against the pillow as he whimpered.  Grantaire moaned around him, Enjolras’ body shuddering with the memory of how such a sound felt around his cock rather than his fingers.  He didn’t have too long to wait.  Grantaire released his hand, paused only to kiss the jut of his hipbone.  “Better.  You are a masterpiece; I will have no element removed.” 

He gave Enjolras his mouth again, guiding Enjolras’ right hand to resume its hold on the back of his head.  His arm pressed hard against Enjolras’ hips, keeping them pinned so he might control his own pace, though he groaned at each sharp tug of Enjolras’ fingers in his curls.  Grantaire’s tongue swirled sensuously around his cock, and Enjolras came with a soft cry, his back arching.  He was always lost for a moment after, an incoherent mess filled with the shocking clarity of air in his lungs and the buzz of his nerves, the pounding of his heart and the need to pull Grantaire close and never let him go.  Panting, his eyes closed as his hands tugged just a little weakly at Grantaire’s shoulders. 

In response, Grantaire buried his face against Enjolras’ thigh, groaning, his body jerking.  Enjolras sighed, a spike of frustration bleeding through, and he tugged a little harder on the nape of Grantaire’s neck. 

“Could you not wait half a minute?”  Not that he could deny how it affected him, the thought of Grantaire’s hand between his legs as he sucked Enjolras off, so aroused he could not wait even for Enjolras’ touch.  It had its draw, yes, but still he’d have preferred to participate, to feel Grantaire’s cock jump in his hand as he came, to see up close the look that washed over his face as he let go. 

“Not a second.”  He let himself be moved, humming appreciatively when Enjolras’ arms wrapped around him.  “Though I admit the superiority of your hands.  How could I not?”  He arched like a stroked cat, pressing into the points where Enjolras’ palms touched him as he leaned down for a kiss.  It was slow, Grantaire licking into his mouth with gentle reverence, his lips curving as Enjolras moaned at the taste of himself on Grantaire’s tongue.  At the first pause for breath Grantaire pulled away, leaving him with a last chaste kiss despite Enjolras’ soft sound of protest.  He rose up on his hands, sliding out of Enjolras’ arms just purposefully enough that Enjolras didn’t try to hold him there. 

Enjolras turned to his side, rising up on his elbow to squint after Grantaire into the darkness.  “What on earth are you-“

“Just lie back, will you?”  At the desk, Grantaire fumbled a moment in the dark before he struck light and lit a candle, then another.  It was meager lighting at best, but enough to throw the bed into some semblance of light when he placed them together, close to the edge.  He bent over his trunk next to the desk, and for the moment Enjolras was drawn away from the movements of his hands by the distraction of his body, still naked.  He watched the play of muscle across his back, the curve of his ass, the strength in his thighs, his gaze lingering as Grantaire made his way back to the bed.  Smiling, he shoved gently at Enjolras shoulder.  “On your back.  Please.” 

In his left hand, he held his slightly battered sketchbook, a pencil tucked in close against the spine.  Enjolras sank back against the pillows, reaching down for their sheet as if drawing it over him might stop the blush he could feel rising on his cheeks. 

“I can’t imagine why this occurred to you now.  The lighting is terrible, and-“  The scrape of the desk chair drowned him out, Grantaire smiling as he dragged it over to deposit it next to the bed, stationing himself close enough for as good a view as he was likely to get. 

“I could hardly agree more, but you’re out of bed so quickly in the mornings I’d never have the time, even if I could drag myself up with the dawn.  You refused too to sit for a portrait for me; cooperating now is the least you can do.  As to the why-“    He reached out, fingers snagging on the sheet Enjolras stubbornly tried to hold until he let go, let him draw it away to leave him bared to Grantaire’s gaze.  The air that had felt so heavily warm before seemed suddenly chilled.  “-I have thought of capturing you like this more times than I can count.  I can think of no subject more beautiful than the way you look in your moments between sex and sleep.” 

His heart jolted, and he swallowed hard, his eyes downcast.  He would never refuse, could not even think of it with Grantaire asking him like that and yet he knew his cheeks were burning, could feel a disconcerting prickle along the skin of his arms, his chest.  The sudden awareness of exposure was absurd, he knew, childish almost, and yet he couldn’t completely quell it, couldn’t stop the creeping tension that overtook the heated buzz of limp exhaustion he’d hardly had time to bask in. 

Then, Grantaire’s hand was against his cheek, his lips soft against Enjolras’ forehead, gentle as a moth’s wings.  “Easy.“  The soft rumble of his voice was calming, soothing the rabbit quick beating of Enjolras’ heart.  Grantaire nuzzled against his hairline, kissed his temple and murmured wordlessly until Enjolras acquiesced to turn toward him.  Grantaire seemed rock steady then, warm and solid and almost sober.  Now, he could see that Grantaire had had this planned all evening, from the moment he eased off his absinthe and came to sit at Enjolras’ elbow and listen with hardly a comment, eyes bright as he watched.  Across the bond Enjolras could feel the buzz of a rare intensity, Grantaire brimming with a subtle tension that was all eagerness, in perfect contrast to Enjolras’ reluctance.  Always, they remained in contrast. 

Grantaire’s thumb stroked his across his cheekbone, as deliberate as if he were already drawing, already tracing line to paper in his mind.  “I would have one of you at least as you are here, in this bed.  That is, if you will permit it.  You will always be my favored subject but in this, the choice must be yours.”

“You have drawn me already?”  He’d meant to answer, to say he didn’t mind, to close his eyes and shake the last of the unsettling nerves Grantaire’s touch had almost fully chased away, but the question rose too quick to even think of holding it in. 

“Oh, I have dozens.”  He kissed Enjolras’ eyelids, ruffled his fingers through his hair lightly as he drew away to settle back in his chair, his smile fond.  He seemed amused by Enjolras’ surprise, as if he’d stated only an obvious truth.  Perhaps he had.

Of all the nights Enjolras had been conscious of Grantaire’s eyes on him across the café, he’d never fully realized that he fell under the gaze not just of the man that longed to be at his side but of an artist.  He’d called Grantaire out often enough for squandering his intelligence on wine and cynicism, and yet he’d never asked about the calling Grantaire had tried to choose, never asked about the classes he no longer attended or if he might look inside the sketchbook he occasionally carried clasped tight against his side.  He’d caught him painting there at home before, watched over his shoulder a handful of afternoons as he worked at a project but even then they’d never properly spoken of it, not beyond a remark or two.  He never questioned, never sought more than Grantaire freely offered him.  It was not an active failure perhaps, but a failure of omission nonetheless.   

To admit it even in his own mind stung, burning that much sharper as he argued with himself, seeking justification.

 _An understandable oversight.  You’ve hardly had the time for such questions.  If he wished to speak to you about his work, he would have done it._  

No, he wouldn’t have, not when Enjolras made it so abundantly clear that the time he’d carved out for Grantaire extended to their nights alone, all too short snatches of time spent mostly in their bed.  Even short as their time together was, he came home some nights too worn from his work around the city to do more than exchange a few words before he passed out, Grantaire’s body nestled warm against his side.  Enjolras had told him he could promise only the parts of himself leftover, and Grantaire took them without the slightest protest. 

Enjolras sat up, forgot about the blanket and reached out instead to Grantaire, gesturing at the sketchbook in his hands.  “May I?”    

His smile brightened, his hands free of any hesitation as he handed the book over.  “Of course you can.  Look all you like.” 

The breath Enjolras took as his fingers wrapped around the cover felt pained, as if his ribs pressed suddenly too tight against his lungs, slicing.  In response, he only griped the corner more firmly, flipping it open to look down at the first page.  With that, for a moment, his breath stopped entirely. 

He looked down at a loose sketch that was, for all its flowing lines, undeniably himself.  He stood in the street, caught in motion as he rallied the people, one hand in the air and his hair caught by the wind.  His face dominated the following page, a study of him seemingly lost in concentration that had been made from far closer range.  On the next, he leaned forward on his elbows at a table, rapt with attention to a speaker who hadn’t been given a face.  The more pages he turned the more versions of himself he found, interspersed here and there with images of their friends.  In one, Jehan wrote with a long quill, while in the next Marius held part of a disassembled gun.  In another, Combeferre’s arm rested easily across Joly’s shoulders, holding him close as he could as they sat smoking together, their chairs against the wall.  They were all there, every one of them but Grantaire himself, though it was the pictures of Enjolras that took up the most room, carried the most detail.  As Grantaire drew him, there was beauty in even the curl of his fingers around a candle as he lit it. 

On the last used page, a little over halfway through the book, he stood leaning over a map, his hands pressed to the table.  Enjolras almost stroked his thumb across the page, only reminded himself just in time that he might smudge the lead. 

“These are magnificent.”  Enjolras whispered, his voice nearly hoarse with awe. 

“They’re only sketches; few of them are even properly finished.  It’s quicker than painting, at any rate.” 

“That you find these simple speaks even more to your talents.”  Talents it seemed Enjolras had never been properly aware of.  The paintings he’d glimpsed had seemed promising but these, these were breathtaking, shockingly lifelike.  “You have a gift.” 

“I have a stunning subject, nothing more.  Even my inadequate attempts could hardly mar you.”  He had almost whispered in response to Enjolras’ tone, his words running together a bit as he murmured.  There was a blush to his cheeks, self-conscious in a way Enjolras had never seen him. 

“No, you have a gift.”  Slowly, he held the book out, pressing it still open back into Grantaire’s hands.  “This is what brought you to Paris, is it not?  When we met, you told me you were an art student and yet-“

“Classes are tedious; so much is expected of you.  Consistency is hardly my strong suit, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“You have yet to miss a meeting since the first you attended.”

“Nor do I plan to, however, classes held no similar incentive.” 

Enjolras leaned forward, reaching out to draw Grantaire to him for a rough kiss.  He responded eagerly to Enjolras’ fervor, a soft sound rising from his throat as Enjolras’ tongue so forcefully sought his.  Enjolras’ throat seemed filled with words he trapped there, a jostling mess of questions he would never ask. 

_Do you ever wish it wasn’t me, for you?  Do you ever wish you had never come to the Musain at all, ever wish you’d had the better fortune to find an alpha ready and willing to give you all you deserve?  Do you remember the night I told you I wished it hadn’t been you?  Will you ever believe me when I tell you now that I am not sorry?  I can’t be sorry, not with this bond between us, not once I allowed myself to admit to this- apart, we are incomplete._

Grantaire’s lip slid slowly from between his teeth, swollen and wet.  Their breath came equally heavy, and Enjolras’ nerves sparked weakly, struggling to respond.  He longed to pull Grantaire back to bed, to roll him over and take him, his teeth locked around the soft juncture of shoulder and neck.  Enjolras licked his lips, felt his stomach clench at the taste of Grantaire before he swallowed hard, steadying.  Even had his body been ready and able to answer his desires, now was not the time.  He kissed Grantaire once more before he spoke, their lips not an inch apart. 

“How is it you want me?” 

Grantaire groaned, turned his head to bite lightly at Enjolras’ jaw before he could bring himself to answer. 

“Lie back.  Close your eyes.” 

This time, the race to his pulse brought no chill to his skin.  With his eyes shut, he twitched when Grantaire’s hand flattened against his chest. 

“Relax for me.  Or must I wait and bring you off again first?” 

“Would such a prospect dissuade you, honestly?”

“It distracts me, and I want to get this done while I have you here.  So,-“  There was just a hint of added pressure to his hand, pressing just over Enjolras’ heart.  “- _please_ , at least put on the pretense of not having moved since I went for the candles.”

“I will try.”

“First, you might try silence.” 

Enjolras took a deep breath, nodded once before turning his head to bury it just a little into the pillow.  If what Grantaire wanted was him caught between pleasure and sleep, that wasn’t quite so hard a state to capture, really.  Despite the distractions he did still feel the buzz underneath his skin, the heaviness to his limbs.  If not for the empty space next to him, he’d have been perfectly at ease. 

“Are you-“

“Shhh.” 

In the silence, Enjolras eventually almost drifted off, remained only barely conscious of the slight discomfort that came from having no blanket at all and no Grantaire against him.  He did not notice when the candles were extinguished, didn’t hear the scrape of chair legs across the floorboards, only knew that after a time that seemed longer than it must have been, Grantaire was finally sliding in bed beside him and drawing the sheet up over them both. 

“I thought you might show me.”  From the way Grantaire’s chest shook with his laugh, the words might have come out more mangled than he realized. 

Grantaire wrapped himself around Enjolras, his body curving to hold him close as Enjolras turned onto his side.  He kissed Enjolras’ shoulder, a haphazard line that followed the constellation of freckles that spread across his upper back.  “Tomorrow.  I’ll show you tomorrow.” 

\--------

Grantaire sat his bottle down with a soft thunk, his eyes flickering questioningly from Enjolras to the plate he’d just sat down before him. 

“You’ve not been eating well.”  Enjolras pulled his own chair out and sat down, inching the plate a little closer as if that might prompt him to take a bite.  “You need to take a full meal.” 

“Considering everything I eat seems to disagree with me, I’m not sure that’s feasible.” 

“If you drink less of this-“, Enjolras dragged the bottle of wine out of Grantaire’s reach, sliding it far enough to his right that he’d be in control of it.  “-I think you might feel a little more like eating.  Go on, while it’s warm.” 

“And here I thought you were busy tonight.“

“I can write well enough while you eat.” 

It took him a moment, semi irritated sigh escaping him as he toyed with the fork without touching a bite of roasted meat or the potatoes.  Enjolras watched out of the corner of his eye as he unfolded his papers, tried to give him a little time before prompting him again. 

“If you’d rather something else, I could-“

“No, no it’s fine, it’s fine.”  He pulled up a smile, reached across the table to catch Enjolras’ fingers.  “Thank you.” 

Undeterred, Enjolras tapped the corner of the plate.  “Dinner, please.” 

He shifted his grip on the fork and speared a chunk of potato, and Enjolras took a deep breath, refocusing on the work before him.  He was a minute finding his place, his thoughts; he had to reread the previous lines twice before he remember exactly what he’d been about to say.  These past few weeks had been hard, likely on Grantaire as well but he knew for certain only his own struggles. 

Joly had spoken to him of chemical changes, of a difference in Grantaire that he would soon be able to scent on the air but what he hadn’t mentioned(what he hadn’t thought to, perhaps, as he wasn’t an alpha himself) were the effects such a change would have on Enjolras.  Like the prelude to Grantaire’s heat it had seemed a subtle thing at first, as slight as a flicker of light on the horizon but with every day it seemed the difference grew more pronounced.  Rather than the all-consuming desire he’d felt before, this seemed at first to simply keep him on a shorter tether, drawing him back to Grantaire with anxiety that refused to be dismissed or ignored if he put too much distance between them.  Where he had once enjoyed seeing Grantaire’s face in the crowd as he spoke in the streets it had begun to make him uneasy, too hyperaware of potential dangers to feel at ease unless Grantaire kept to the fringes of the crowd, far enough to deny involvement, far enough to retreat. 

Before, he might have had the urge to run his fingers through Grantaire’s hair as he sat beside him, but he hardly ever reached out to him in public, had only been marginally less careful about distance between them after their bond as he had been before.  It was both a professional and personal choice, a move both to keep their private lives separate and to keep himself from temptation, though recently, it had seemed far less distracting to give a little ground.  Here, among their friends who they had no secrets from, it seemed a minor concession to trail his fingers across Grantaire’s shoulder as he passed behind his chair, to reassure them both with a light squeeze at the nape of his neck.  (It certainly wasn’t a deterrent, either, that Grantaire all but purred at every touch, however brief.  If the sense of possession he felt hadn’t been reinforcement enough, that might have become an excellent incentive of its own.) 

He had for some time been no longer merely an alpha but _Grantaire’s_ alpha, and still he’d been unprepared for these changes, for how it was to be an alpha adjusting to the expectation of family.  Mornings, he found himself waking earlier and earlier to watch Grantaire sleep against his chest.  It was strange, the lump that rose in his throat, that burned his tongue with the need to say again and again, _However I can, I will take care of you.  I promise._   His heartbeat skipped, always, at the moment he realized afresh that he meant either of them, both of them, and his grip tightened.  (Sometimes, it was tight enough to wake Grantaire, and he would blink blearily at Enjolras in the dark long enough to ask “ ‘s it time already?”.  With the streets still dark, Enjolras would kiss his forehead, smooth has hands down his bare back.  “No, no.  I’m not leaving yet.  Go back to sleep.”) 

Every day, Lamarque grew weaker and every day, their child grew, two opposing forces with Enjolras caught between them.  When last he’d looked in a mirror, the dark circles under his eyes seemed to have taken up residence.  He worked in small victories.  That afternoon, he had heard excellent news of the numbers of those in their favor in rue de Bac.  Tonight, he just might manage to get Grantaire to eat a meal and keep it down.  He used those thoughts to balance him as he wrote his letters, good news to smother his tension.  The scraping of fork on plate became a welcome background noise, and he fell into his writing with proper abandon, worry finally defeated for the moment. 

Later that night back at home, letters completed and the café emptied, Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire from behind as Grantaire stood at the window, hand on the shutters as if he hadn’t yet decided whether to close them.  He looked a little pale, though it was nothing next to the shaky, miserable sickness Enjolras had now seen entirely too many times. 

“How do you feel?”

“I _feel_ like I am being watched.”  Grantaire turned to nuzzle Enjolras’ unshaven cheek, humming softly at the scrape of stubble.  “You’re hovering, Enjolras.” 

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”  His arm curved back, his fingers playing lightly with the hair at the nape of Enjolras’ neck.  “It isn’t like you, to be so…I hesitate to say ‘present’, however…”

Grantaire rarely had trouble being blunt.  Whether he’d meant it to or not, the slight jab hit its mark.  Enjolras hadn’t been the most attentive mate, that much was certainly true.  Honestly, he hadn’t turned into one overnight, either.  It was simply that there was _more_ now, his instincts drawn full force to the surface by Grantaire’s perceived fragile state and the prospect of their child.  Together, they comprised a formidable force, never enough to eclipse his ideals but enough to rival them, enough to make him struggle harder for balance. 

He buried his face in Grantaire’s neck, breathing him in.  “I am yours.  I may not excel at it but I do try to take care of you.” 

Grantaire turned enough to kiss his temple, gentle and lingering.  “I love you.” 

He knew that, of course he did, and still to hear it always made his breath catch.  Enjolras kissed his neck softly, kept his eyes closed tight as he whispered against his skin.  “Gavroche tells me Lamarque will not last the week.”  Grantaire’s left hand that had rested easily against Enjolras’ arms around his waist gripped his arm, tight enough that he could feel the dig of each finger.  “I wanted to tell you first.  Grantaire…”  A dozen thoughts jockeyed for place and how could he say them, any of them?  How would any of it ever be enough when at its most basic he could only say _I love you, but not enough, never enough_.  His eyes stung, and he struggled to hold them shut.  The sharp breath he drew in did nothing to help him. 

“I need you to know that how we came to this point matters nothing to me, now; whether I’d have said the same if asked before or not, have no doubt, I want all of it now.  I want to take care of you as I should, I want to raise our child here in Paris, I-“  He faltered, unable to say the worst.  _I don’t want to die, not now.  I want a life with you._   No, that weight, he had to carry alone.  If he set those words free, Grantaire would never understand why they couldn’t leave, why he’d never leave.  All desires were selfish, even those.  He may not _want_ to die, but if he _needed_ to, if that was the price France demanded of him, he could do no less.  He lost the battle against his stinging eyes, and he shifted enough to rub the damp corner of one against the collar of Grantaire’s shirt.  “Please.  Tell me you believe me.”

In whisper so soft Enjolras felt his heart almost drowned it out, Grantaire answered.

“Don’t I always?  I have believed in you from the start; how could I stop now?  You are ever my exception.” 

Enjolras let out the breath he’d held, felt it quiver slightly with his weariness.  “I love-“

Grantaire cut him off with a kiss, just long enough to silence him before adding, “I know you do.  I know.”

Outside the window, the moon rose over the first hours of June. 

\---------

In those early days of June, Enjolras took to haunting the stretch of road before Lamarque’s house like an apparition, a blood red specter just short of violence.  With the time so close at hand, all the tension in him bled into his work until he paced like a wildcat.  The others gravitated to the pull of his restless energy more often than not, and he was joined in his speeches nearly every day by Marius and Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Joly and Jehan.  Grantaire meandered around the edges of the crowd, never far from Enjolras and yet he rarely spoke a word. 

Ridiculously perhaps, Enjolras felt less supported by his silence than he ever had by any of his maddening dissentions.  He stopped painting, maintained his highest possible level of drinking in his current state, though he swore that beyond their impending disaster, all was well. 

On the 3rd, Grantaire spent his afternoon passing out pamphlets while Enjolras talked, or, rather, handing them off halfheartedly to the fringes of Enjolras’ audience while he sat against the wall, bottle wedged between his thighs.  Agitated by the guards and the breakup of the crowd, Enjolras didn’t speak a word to him on the walk back, didn’t so much as look him in the eye until they were back to the Musain and Grantaire was taking the seat across from him, sliding a half full wine glass across the table to rest just before Enjolras’ hand. 

“I still believe in you.  You know I do.  It is only the fevered folly of the masses I doubt; you call to them, and I fear they answer only because they cannot resist you.  I can hardly blame them, but I do not trust them.  Not a one, not outside this room.” 

Rather than nod, he reached across the table, covering Grantaire’s hand with his left.  In his right, he lifted the glass for a drink. 

\--------

“How can you fail to understand?  I must go to her; as an alpha surely you understand such a draw far better than I ever could!  She is no passing fascination!”

“It does not matter what she is, Marius, now is not the time!  I would not begrudge you the chance any time but this; we are too close to turn back now and we have need of every man.”  More than most, he had need of Marius.  He had planned at Enjolras’ side along with Combeferre and Courfeyrac for months now; his support was vital not only for numbers and strength but morale.  If they intended to lead the people, they must present a united front, firm and unbroken.  “Our own lives cannot matter, not when the people’s need for us has never been greater.  What does it matter if you love her or not?  France’s need does not change in accordance with your feelings.” 

“Above all else?  Above-“

“I ask no price of any man I myself am unwilling to pay; when I tell you this is all that matters let me be clear-“  He stepped forward, voice dropping dangerously as he faced Marius down.  “I will lead us to the barricades from Lamarque’s funeral procession; I have made my choice.  Make yours.” 

Until then, until he felt the weight of the hush that descended over the room, he had not realized how loud their argument had become, with what rapt attention everyone had stopped to listen.  His breath came heavy, his arms near to trembling in frustrated anger though he held them taunt.  In the back of his mind the thought flashed of shaking Marius, infuriated he’d pushed Enjolras far enough to speak out loud of the hooks that dragged into his heart.  His choice was made, yes; it had been made long before he ever met Grantaire.  Still, he was certain no decision could have ever possibly caused him greater pain, and he could hardly stand to hear Marius carry on about his own grand romance. 

Enjolras had never been a man of discrimination but he could hardly help but think bitterly that of all those to challenge him, Marius hardly had a leg to stand on.  He was a beta.  Even had he fallen in love(regrettably, Enjolras believed he had indeed), he would never know the havoc a bond could wreak on a person, never know the way it pulled and stretched and rearranged inside their chest until every breath, every heartbeat seemed to revolve around that single point.  Marius, at most, had to betray his heart.  If he was to be true to the calling he had chosen(and he could do no less), Enjolras must betray his very soul.  He had his mate and his unborn child, ties that bound him so tightly he could feel their cut with every breath and still, he would not fail. 

Marius broke eye contact first, as close to an admission of defeat as Enjolras would have ever expected to receive.  He shook his head once in vague resistance before he walked away, heading to the stairs where Eponine waited in the shadows.  Beyond the sound of his boots, the silence remained, all his men caught holding their breath in the aftermath.  What more could he say that he had not just made clear?  What on earth did they expect of him?  If they saw cruelty in his treatment of Marius, was it so very hard for them to understand his reasons?  Since the day he’d gone to Grantaire, he’d done what seemed to him the best balancing act he could; he was inherently as imperfect as any other man.  If his nerves were now frayed to the point of visibility, there was little he could do to combat it but push forward. 

Raking his hair away from his eyes, he looked up to search the room.  “Courfeyrac?”

“I’ve only just come back, not ten minutes past.  The people in St. Antoine stand ready to join us.”  He answered as readily as ever, as calm as if they spoke over dinner.    

“And we have all the guns we need?” 

“Yes, more than enough if our numbers stand as they are.” 

“We’ve secured the last shipment of gunpowder.”  Feuilly patted a small keg at his side, giving Enjolras a small smile around Combeferre’s shoulders as he did and one by one, the talk again rose around the room, men slipping back into their preparations.  As the stares faded, he risked a glance first for Marius, unsurprised to find the staircase empty.  Hesitantly, he searched the room a little more carefully, counting every man though he could sense the truth long before his eyes confirmed it. 

Grantaire was gone. 

\--------

Though he’d wanted nothing more than to go look for Grantaire that instant, it was a luxury he couldn’t afford.  On the eve of battle, a commander must be present, must weave through the people who stood ready to follow him, must make last minute decisions and keep up the courage of the volunteers.  His duties were inescapable, and so it was another two hours before Enjolras found him, at a table downstairs he approached in the process of making his rounds, after he’d circled most everywhere, after Marius had returned, fresh determination visible in him as he wrapped the flag around his fist.  Enjolras had spent the time speaking with Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Combeferre a little more about the status of their weaponry then done his best to mingle effectively, shifting through the crowds to share a few words with anyone that seemed to need it, to clasp his friends’ shoulders and bolster their good spirits.  It was the kind of work for the revolution that came most easily to him, that had always felt too honest to seem work at all, but even enjoying it as he did, he couldn’t deny his relief when he saw Grantaire at the end of a table, distributing cockades to newcomers and neighbors.

It took him only a moment to navigate the crowd and be at his side, his arm settling across Grantaire’s shoulders as he stepped in close.  Touching him was a relief, like the loosening of a knot in his spine he hadn’t been fully aware of.   He pulled Grantaire tight against his side, voice low enough for Grantaire’s ears alone under all the noise. 

“I’ve been looking for you.”  Half true, mostly true; he’d never stopped looking, but he hadn’t moved very quickly. 

Grantaire shrugged him off, his attention seemingly absorbed in the basket of ribbon between his hands.  “You should be careful; wouldn’t want them to see you with me, not tonight.  Can’t have there being any doubt about your priorities, can we?” 

Perhaps he deserved that, but still the words sliced at him as effectively as Grantaire could’ve hoped.  He stood frozen only as long as it took Grantaire to move to step away, his hand then shooting out to hold his arm fast. 

“My choice might be made, but tell me, when since our bond have I ever denied your importance, here or elsewhere?  If he’d questioned my feelings for you rather than my dedication to the cause, do you think I would have refused to admit to them?”

Enjolras could feel the fight leech out of him, the slight tension of his insubstantial pull against Enjolras’ grip fading.  His hand came to rest heavily against the nape of Enjolras’ neck, thumb stroking against his cheek.  Enjolras was so very careful not to move an inch, not to look away; he would show Grantaire no hesitation now.  Enjolras could see how it pleased him, to show even that slight possession where anyone might see.  When his hand slipped away, it wasn’t without reluctance. 

“Forgive me.  Of all nights, I have no desire to fight with you now.  You’ve given me no reason to doubt you, Enjolras.  I knew your priorities when we began.  You’ve been more than fair.” 

To that, there was nothing he could say.  The truth remained as indisputable as ever and yet somehow, for the two of them it had never seemed insurmountable.  Grantaire smiled, straightened Enjolras’ coat in an excuse to press his hands briefly to his chest as he smoothed the lapels. 

 “Tell me, have they desperate need of you right this minute?  Or might I steal you away?  You will need rest, before tomorrow.” 

Enjolras crossed his arms, eyebrows rising in question.  “And that is what you offer, rest?”

“I offer to take you home.  As for your preparations for tomorrow, that is only a suggestion.  If you had other plans, I might be agreeable.” 

Upstairs, the commotion of gathering and sorting continued, a rustle of eager men and readied weapons.  It would not stop before the dawn and Grantaire was right to a point at least; he must be prepared not only for the procession that afternoon but for the long, sleepless night that was sure to follow.  Once the barricades rose, he would surely have no time for anything but their campaign.  This night was his last chance for a number of things, at the very least for quite some time.  He had, for the time being, done enough. 

With a nod, he took Grantaire’s hand. 

It took time to push through the crowd, to make their way to the door and even across the immediate street beyond with its incessant press of people.  On the eve of the revolution those who had remained mute in their support before had come out into the night, promising furniture for the barricade as they pinned cockades to their chests.  Every heart won over counted; every one of them did credit to France.  It was such spirit that would bring them success in the end; he was sure of it.  France would rise, greater than she had under Napoleon, greater than the world had ever dreamed, and at her core would be her people, ready to rule themselves. 

His grip on Grantaire’s hand tightened as the streets cleared, squeezing lightly.  “See how they come to us?  I tell you, I am not wrong, not this time.  Paris is ready.”

“You inspire them.  I’ve yet to meet the man, woman, or child who can look at you and not become contaminated by your belief.” 

“Ah, but there you are wrong.  You remain immune.” 

“To you?  Ridiculous.”  He tugged sharply on Enjolras’ hand as they turned a corner, pulling him off balance enough that he was drawn against Grantaire as he backed himself against a wall.  Grantaire didn’t wait long enough for him to properly regain his footing before he took Enjolras’ face in his unoccupied hand and pulled him down for a kiss. 

Enjolras stabilized, brought his right hand up to press against the wall just above Grantaire’s shoulder and took control of the kiss.  Grantaire’s lips parted easily for him, his grip on Enjolras’ hand painfully tight as Enjolras’ tongue thrust teasingly against his.  The mimicry was clear enough that Grantaire whimpered, a sound that never failed to shoot straight to Enjolras’ cock.  To hear him so affected, to know _he_ brought Grantaire such pleasure, all of it combined into a rush of power that satisfied his basest alpha desires.   He pressed Grantaire to the wall, thigh between his legs to feel the evidence of arousal.  Already, he felt temptingly hard, and Enjolras turned his head away from the kiss as he moaned, his head full of remembered sensation, of the slide of Grantaire’s cock against his as Enjolras stroked them both, the taste of Grantaire on his tongue the nights he’d done his best to swallow him down with Grantaire tugging impatiently on his hair.  He could take either pleasure, now, could manage it quickly enough and yet, neither was what he wanted. 

He nuzzled against Grantaire’s cheek, lips brushing his ear.  “I thought you offered to take me home.”

“I had to stop, to prove my point.  How you could ever suggest I am immune to you is beyond me.”  The hand on Enjolras’ cheek slid further back, scratching lightly at his scalp as his fingers flexed.  “You could fuck me here; I have no objections.”  The coarseness of his language only served to stoke the burn under Enjolras’ skin, and he bit down on the skin just below Grantaire’s ear, growling softly. 

“I do, however.  If I am to take you-“  Grantaire moaned, bared his throat further to Enjolras’ ministrations.  “-then we must go.”  His lips hovered over Grantaire’s skin, struggling to control his rapid breath as he waited for Grantaire’s answer.  Enjolras ached to be inside him, to feel Grantaire clench around him when he came, but he would honor Grantaire’s wishes.  If Grantaire wanted him here, like this, he would continue. 

Grantaire’s body shuddered, and for a moment his neck strained toward Enjolras’ mouth, but he managed to pull himself together enough to push him a little roughly away, though he maintained his grip on Enjolras’ hand. 

“If we’re going, you should start walking.”

Enjolras shook his head, pushed his hair back and hoped the slight breeze in the air might help clear his thoughts.  “ _That_ little incident was of your making, not mine.” 

“You contributed well enough.” 

“And besides, you knew perfectly well what I meant.  I might make believers out of all of France before I ever reached you.” 

Grantaire laughed, still breathless.  “That remains to be seen.” 

When they reached the building they took the stairs absurdly fast, shut their door with a slam as Grantaire pushed him back against it. 

“Grantaire, a little consideration might be-“

“Let them wake, and go join the others in the streets.”  His hands moved beneath Enjolras’ coat, stroking his sides and his back, his lips seeking Enjolras’ for a kiss.  “I am far too impatient to have you inside me to care.” 

He said such things so matter of factly, so easily, as if he didn’t know the effect he had.  Enjolras caught his face in his hands, kissed him thoroughly and pulled away with a sharp nip to his lower lip. 

“Not like this, either.  Get on the bed for me.  On your back.” 

They both stripped hurriedly, separate, only coming back together briefly as Grantaire unfastened his trousers.  The sight of him bare chested was too tempting, and Enjolras stopped with his own shirt half opened to haul Grantaire back against him, his hands sliding down the back of his loosened trousers to grip his ass.  Grantaire groaned, hips making an aborted thrust against Enjolras, whose hold was too tight to let Grantaire move as freely as he wished.  They stumbled a bit, off balance, and Grantaire smiled against his shoulder as tugged his gaping shirt aside to bare space for him to kiss. 

“And you spoke of _my_ impatience.”

“You were distracting.”

“I’d be offended if I wasn’t.” 

Enjolras couldn’t resist a smile of his own, kneaded roughly at Grantaire’s ass once more before extricating himself.  “Get on with it.” 

“Such demands.”

“As if you mind.” 

Grantaire made it to the bed first, Enjolras slowed a bit by his stop at the desk for the oil they kept in the drawer.  He tossed it to the bed beside Grantaire’s chest, and after that, there were no more delays.  He’d had the thought on the way home that they should make this last, drag it out as long as they could manage but all questions of that had left him the minute Grantaire had kissed him in the alley; in all likelihood, they’d have left him once they made it home regardless.  They were both strung too tight, made wild by knowledge.  Tomorrow night, they would be at the barricade.

Enjolras tipped too much oil onto his fingers in his haste, his hand dripping as he reached between Grantaire’s thighs to prepare him.  It had been easier in his heat, Grantaire’s body wet and ready for him, but there was something to be said for the pleasure of this, of the need for oil and the way Grantaire always cried out the moment Enjolras’ fingers breeched him.  As accustomed to Enjolras’ cock as he’d become, there was no need for extensive preparation.   He hooked his fingers, rubbing just at the spot he knew made Grantaire shake with need.  His body arched, hips rocking down against Enjolras’ fingers, and Enjolras dipped his head to taste the skin on his chest, tracing muscle with lips and tongue. 

Grantaire buried one hand in the sheets, the other digging into Enjolras’ skin with a welcome sting as he clawed at his shoulder.  Enjolras pulled his fingers free, groaning as he used the oil to slick his cock.  Grantaire tried to stop him, reached ineffectively forward with a whisper of “Let me”, but Enjolras batted him away, shaking his head. 

“If I let you, you’ll get no more than that.” 

Enjolras positioned his cock, felt the brush of the head against slick muscle and bit his lip against the urge to push right in.  Instead he shifted their position, drawing Grantaire’s legs to rest against his shoulders.  Like this it would be deeper, Grantaire flexible enough to manage it if he leaned down for a kiss(he would, of course he would; in bed together like this they could hardly stop).  Still, he sought Grantaire’s approval before he began, one arm still hooked around Grantaire’s leg as he turned his head to kiss the inside of his thigh, just above his knee. 

“Yes?”

“Please.” 

Enjolras smiled for him, pressed another kiss to the sensitive skin so available to him before he came forward, his first thrust gradual, sliding in with a measured glide.  His restraint could not hold, not for a second past that moment of precaution.  He drew his hips back almost completely and thrust hard, setting a rhythm that would soon have him panting with exertion, not that it would matter.  This could not last as long as he wanted; he’d known that much already. 

Grantaire met him with equal passion, hips jerking frantically, out of synch but perfect all the same.  With his head turned against the pillow he moaned Enjolras’ name and Enjolras responded with a sharp tug on his hair, baring his neck for him to mark.  As he did he could feel the vibration as Grantaire slipped into softer noises, both hands coming up to hold Enjolras’ head in place at his throat.  Sometimes, he was almost sure Grantaire loved that particular act as much as he did, though he couldn’t imagine the bruises he left could bring Grantaire as much pleasure as they brought him, caught in glances at the café behind Grantaire’s open collar.  The sight never failed to fill him with a flush of pride and arousal, primal approval at the thought that any alpha Grantaire passed would see the mark, could smell Enjolras’ scent all over him and know that no matter Grantaire’s status at that moment, he was never alone. 

When Enjolras stopped he barely had time to draw breath before Grantaire pulled him into a kiss, deep and chaotic.  He was close; Enjolras had learned to feel it in the slightest tremble in his fingers, in the way his tongue met Enjolras’ with just a little less skill, a little less deliberation. 

Enjolras retreated far enough in their embrace to look down at him, the movements of his hips shifting for a moment to a grind, their bodies fully joined.  Grantaire’s chest heaved with labored breath, his hands tight against Enjolras’ arms.  In the dark his eyes seemed to glimmer, pools of lust and love and pure, untempered adoration. 

“Beautiful.”  It was off his lips before he could stop it, not that he’d have tried very hard.  Grantaire might not believe it, but it was undeniably true.  He was breathtaking, never more so than like this, undone for Enjolras.  He kissed Grantaire before he could protest, before he could laugh or dismiss him, had he been able to manage either.  He reached between them as they kissed, wrapped his fingers around Granatire’s cock and felt it jolt to life as he came after only a single stroke.  Enjolras carried him through it, his hand never stilling, their kiss unbroken as Enjolras swallowed the sounds of his pleasure. 

As Grantaire went limp beneath him, he mustered the energy to hook his arm around Enjolras neck, and he broke their kiss only to whisper in his ear. 

“Go on.  Give yourself to me.”

He had never been able to do any less.  He cried out, his face buried against Grantaire’s neck while he came.  He was, at first, too affected to move.  The mild discomfort of their position was enough to rouse him, though, and as he came back to himself he pulled out with a soft sigh, rolling over onto his back with his arms already open. 

Grantaire melted into the invitation, nestling half on top Enjolras as he did most nights.  They had slept a dozen ways and more but this, this was what Enjolras preferred, the comforting pressure of Grantaire’s weight against him and the feel of Grantaire’s breath on his skin.  Enjolras stroked a hand through his hair, cupped his jaw to tip his face up for a lazy kiss.  Their breath evened out but never matched, always uneven, and Enjolras smiled as he remembered their first morning, how at the moment of their bond he’d felt their heartbeats align.  For once, they had been indistinguishable in something at least. 

His fingers roved over Grantaire’s back, tracing aimless patterns, tapping out uneven rhythms.  “Tomorrow, at the funeral procession-“

“I will be there; you won’t be disappointed.” 

Honestly, the question that he might had not even crossed his mind.  He’d wavered instead over the words _wait for us at the Musain; it won’t be safe_ , but after Grantaire spoke, he couldn’t say them.  He was either being selfish, reckless, or correct; he had no idea which, and he didn’t waste time puzzling it out.  Instead, he stilled his fingers, brought them up to curl protectively at the back of Grantaire’s neck. 

“I know.  I believe in you.” 

\--------

As they added the last chairs to the barricade, Enjolras strained to hear the soldiers coming.  It had been a mad dash back to the Musain, down streets filled with mobs, caught up in waving flags and wild shots that had made his heart lurch.  After the mayhem began he’d sent Grantaire back on ahead of them, told him to ready the cafe for their arrival.  He’d done nothing of the sort but it hardly mattered; the street stirred to life when they arrived, all hands pitching in with every bit they could provide.  Two of the neighbors had even ripped their doors down, a sacrifice for which he was particularly grateful.  The more pieces of substance they had, the better. 

“Do we have-“  His last words died out as he turned around to see Grantaire kissing a woman, a chair held by a single rung in his outstretched arm.  Triumphant, he let her go and seized the chair in both hands, trotting up to Enjolras with the chair held out. 

“For you.”  Quailing a bit under Enjolras’ gaze, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, his smile softening.  “It would not do for you not to have every last scrap I could give you; this is the last of the chairs, I believe.  I would charge a kiss for it from you also, but-“

“Your dedication is admirable.”  He took the chair, turning away to fit it into the mess that was the barricade as best he could, silently cursing himself for his moment of hesitation.  At the most normal of times, the spike of jealousy he’d felt would have been stupid, irrational; here, where he could not afford the distraction, it was completely ridiculous.  The dedication of mates to each other was unrivaled, infidelity so rare it was almost exclusively a practice of betas and the unbound.  Beyond that, Grantaire loved him with blind abandon, that much was obvious.  That was, however, exactly the trouble with emotions.  They never consulted logic. 

Grantaire’s hand came to rest against the small of his back as he wedged the chair in tight, the touch light but just enough to get his attention.  “Enjolras, I-“

“There’s no need.  Nor have we the time; I’m alright.”  And he was, truly, now that he’d squashed the elemental desire to pull Grantaire to him and kiss him senseless. He had asked Grantaire to contribute to the barricade; he could hardly be surprised his methods were less than conventional.  He stepped back, let his hand rest just long enough against Grantaire’s cheek to assure him he spoke the truth.  “Thank you.” 

Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras just caught the relieved drop of his shoulders as he turned his attention back to the barricade, eyes sweeping over their progress.  Yes, it was coming together nicely.  What they needed most now was information. 

The final piece was the red flag, front and center.  After he’d placed it, he turned to his men, his pride in them swelling as they looked eagerly up at him. 

“I need a volunteer!”

\--------

The rain fell cold.  Under the light of the sun it might have been warmed, might have hit hot paving stones and given rise to steam that dispersed in a hanging mist but in the dark it was transformed, an insidious thing, wetting the gunpowder the man tried frantically to move and soaking through his clothes as he knelt by the barricade, his hand on Marius’ back. 

Eponine’s loss was sobering.  She was not the first, but the first that was in some way  _theirs_ , never quite a member of their band but always present, always welcome.  Now she was gone, and Marius seemed unsure what to do with his hands, the blood first diluted then washed away by the rain.  In life he had never held her, but in death, he’d hardly been able to let her go.  

Enjolras rubbed his back, deliberate and slow.  “I’m sorry, Marius.  I am.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be here.  She only came for me, Enjolras, and that shot, that shot she…”  His voice wavered and he stopped himself, breathing hard. 

“She gave her life freely, for a belief she held in you.  I doubt she was sorry.”  Enjolras struggled against the urge to rise, fought to keep himself ‘present’, as Grantaire would’ve said.  He’d found he wasn’t very good at it.  If he wasn’t writing, wasn’t reading, he was always in motion; even his speeches were filled with pacing.  At the moment, with the crisis of attack averted, his mind warred between the urge to check their progress at covering the gunpowder and the ache that pulled him toward Grantaire.  

When he’d been thrown against the wall by the prisoner they’d taken Enjolras hadn’t even had the chance to pull him aside and ask if he was alright before the soldiers were coming, battle pressing down on them.  Then, there’d only been time to put a restraining hand briefly to his chest as he said, “Stay behind me.”(He said the words a little more harshly than he’d meant to, his voice roughed by the immediacy of their situation.)

In the scrabble that had ensued, he hadn’t exactly been able to spare the time to see that Grantaire obeyed, had only been able to pray fervently that he might.  If he was ever to believe in God, it would be for the sake of Grantaire’s safety.  The fate of the cause rested firmly in the hands of the people, of that he was certain.  With Grantaire, everything seemed far less certain.  He’d prepared himself for many things, had even fairly well prepared himself for the choice he’d had to make but he’d never quite realized how difficult it would to have Grantaire there beside him, to have every shot piercing his brain with questions he didn’t even have the time to acknowledge until all the action was done and it would’ve been far too late to save him. 

He let himself stand only when it seemed Marius would be able to bear his absence, left him with a last pat on the shoulder as he told him to rest.  He stationed Courfeyrac on the first watch, cast his gaze across the barricade until he found Grantaire, settled into the mess of wood with a bottle in his hand.  He looked well enough, whole and unharmed, but while they had a moment to breathe, Enjolras decided he had best make use of it.  When the next attack came they might not have another chance to speak in private for hours (and that next attack was, as he’d told the others, likely to be soon).  Enjolras caught his eye, jerked his chin toward the Musain in a move he knew Grantaire wouldn’t miss, and he headed off into the darkened café without looking back. 

He made it to the upstairs window still alone, was leaning on the sill and looking down at the others when he heard Grantaire on the stairs.  He didn’t go to him, his legs suddenly heavy as lead as he turned to lean against the wall, arms crossed on his chest.  Grantaire came instead to him, his hands framing Enjolras’ face as he rose up to kiss his forehead. 

“You’ve done well.”

“There’s no need to coddle me.”  He hated to say it, hated to think it.  A voice chirped to life in the back of his mind, reminding him not to fight, not now, not when they might have so few words left.  So often, their fights seemed to happen without his consent. 

“What would you have me say?  That I think we’re all going to die here?”

“If you believe it.”

“You know I do.” 

Angered, a bit irrationally so, he almost pushed Grantaire away.  The minute he had hands on him, though, the worry he’d held since the battle took hold, banishing his words and twisting his grip until he was sliding his hands over Grantaire’s waistcoat, feeling the familiar contours of his chest. 

“You’re alright?  You’re not hurt?”

Clearly touched by his questions, Grantaire’s own hostility evaporated, and he leaned forward again to kiss Enjolras’ cheek.  “No.  I’m not hurt.” 

He hadn’t realized quite how heavy the thought had been until his chest seemed to expand, his next breath drawn just a little deeper.  “I could not get the thought out of my head.” 

It might be why his head ached, a pounding that persisted even when he closed his eyes.  If so, he’d thought it might have eased.  He reached up to rub at his temple, smiled a little when he felt Grantaire’s lips beside his fingers. 

“I’m alright, Grantaire.” 

“You’re exhausted.” 

“I’m alright.” 

Eyes still closed, he followed the feel of Grantaire’s breath, the brush of the tip of his nose against Enjolras’ cheek, and he found his lips.  He settled back against the wall and drew Grantaire against him, and they kissed reverently, as if they never had, as if each brush of tongue was a novelty.  It was glorious, more respite than Enjolras could have hoped for, though he didn’t allow himself to take it long.  Restless with the need to be back at the barricade, he pulled reluctantly away, his heart stirring when he saw Grantaire’s lips had reddened from his kisses. 

“Stay here; get some rest.  There is much for me to do.”  After another five minutes at least of protests, he left Grantaire at the last table in the room, head pillowed on his arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know; this whole thing is basically "an extended exercise in cruelty", x.x I promise, though, as you can see there's...not too much left after this, though there is a bit(and by a bit I clearly mean, about 10,000 more words, lmao). 
> 
> alright, time for me to post this and go get some sleep before I have to get up in like 4 hours for work, *whimper* 
> 
> oh! and I meant to say this sooner but, if you want to follow me on tumblr/put anything you like in my ask/be friends my tumblr is here- http://whreflections.tumblr.com/ :) 
> 
> Alright, goodnight guys, promise I'll be hard at work on the last bit soon as I write the paper that's due at midnight tomorrow, XD


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm not even gonna try with the chapters anymore. lmao 
> 
> See, the ending of this story has not changed one bit from day one. I'm just...telling the middle more extensively than I originally planned to I suppose, lol
> 
> So i wanted to tell this last bit all at once, but then I realized I already had like 6,000 words and I wasn't there and I thought, it's stupid to make them wait for an update just cause you're angsting over how many chapters this was 'supposed' to be. So, here you go, :) 
> 
> youguysareallamazingthankyousomuch

 

_I believe in nothing_

_Not the end and not the start_

_I believe in nothing_

_Not the earth and not the stars_

_I believe in nothing_

_Not the day and not the dark_

_I believe in nothing_

_But the beating of our hearts_

_-100 Suns, 30 Seconds to Mars_

 

First, when Enjolras heard the news, he thought, _Grantaire was right_.  There was almost a hollow comfort to it, the thought that of the two of them, at least one of them had known the score.  Despite his plans, his careful preparations, his impassioned pleas to every citizen he could reach, Paris had failed him, still too cowed by past defeat to try again.  Across the city houses were shut tight, shutters latched and doors locked against the breaking of the barricades that happened in their streets.  He could imagine it, the cobblestones red with pools of blood, the smell of gunpowder and fire and fear.  The cycle had repeated through the night, it seemed, and now he’d met with a survivor, a contact who told him of the stark reality of their situation- only their barricade remained. 

The national guard was likely on their way already. 

The first news had struck him motionless, weak and wounded, but the second, that hit him like a whip across his shoulders.  They might be on their way, but they had yet to arrive.  He had time, an hour perhaps, minutes at the least but still, _time_ ; he could not afford to squander it on despondency, not with so much at stake.  It would have been one thing to have Grantaire die in a battle they knew served the greater cause, it was another entirely to think of his death in such a slaughter as was sure to come. 

At the barricade it was not yet dawn, the sky overhead still shifting through shades of blue.  He had a glimpse of his friends as he turned the corner, of Combeferre asleep on the barricade itself with his hand trailing down to rest against Joly’s chest.  The sight twisted like a knife between his ribs, and still he ran, took the stairs inside the Musain two at a time on his way up. 

Grantaire slept soundly, aided by just enough wine; in such a state, the building could have fallen down around him and he’d likely not have woken.  Enjolras grabbed his shoulder, shaking him roughly as he already pulled him half to his feet before he even had the presence of mind to gather his legs under him. 

“On your feet; there’s not a moment to waste.” 

“Enjolras,-“

“ _Listen to me_.”  His breath was heavy, less an effect of the run than of their situation.  There was a reason, after all, that the Romans had found great sport in the hunting of mated pairs of lions.  There was little an alpha feared more than the thought of their mate defenseless, hunted and cornered.  “We are the last of the barricades.  The people have not risen.”  Somehow, he managed to keep the bitterness off his lips when he said it.  “For all we know the guards are on their way as we speak; with the numbers they are sure to bring it will be a massacre, but there is time left.  I had to come for you.” 

He hadn’t meant to stop there but Grantaire’s eyes sparked to life, blazing with such utter _hope_ that he couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe.  It was a look he never thought he’d see, full of life and promise and everything he’d sworn for ages Grantaire was entirely capable of, all of it drawn suddenly forth as he took Enjolras’ face in his hands and kissed him, quickly. 

“Come on then; we can-“

“Don’t.”  He snapped it out, his voice nearly cracking under the strain.  The wrecked sound did its job, drew Grantaire up short and back to face him instead of the staircase.  “You gave me your word.  Once, and you’d never ask me again.  Do not make me say it.” 

Of all he’d done in his life, all that might’ve marked him for punishment, he could hardly see what he’d done to deserve that moment, to have to watch as Grantaire began to understand, to see the very instant he grasped Enjolras’ meaning.  He stumbled forward, coming to lean heavily on the back of the chair. 

“ _No_.  With all I’ve never asked of you, all the times I’ve never minded that you-“

“I have no choice!”

Grantaire tossed the chair aside, more violent than Enjolras had ever seen him.  “Every man has a choice; how often have you said it yourself?”

“If I leave now, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve said will have been for nothing; they may kill us here but they cannot kill what we’ve begun!”  In his mind, the thought had always soothed any momentary doubts he might have had about their success.  Sometimes, history required its martyrs.  Despite his hopes, he had not been utterly ignorant of the possibility of failure; he had only been sure that if France did fail to answer their call this time, others would rise to take it up.  It was still true, but no longer enough to ease any measurable amount of pain.  His voice dropped, hoarse and almost pleading.  “My place is here.  There is no other way.” 

Grantaire’s palms pressed into the table, head bowed as he learned over it.  “And my place is with you.  Or have you forgotten your own promise, that you gave me your word when you said I had a place with you?”

He had, not once, ever wanted more to rail at God, at the king, at France herself.  _Is my life not payment enough?  I said I would give it to you, I never said I would do so without reservation.  Is this the price you demand for daring to love you both, that you force me to break his heart?_

He slammed his hands on the table, hard enough to make Grantaire jump, hard enough to make him look.  “Do not think for one second that I am not capable of being selfish enough to wish you could stay with me.  If I am to die-“  _I would have it be by your side; how can you doubt it?_   He choked, bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.  He could not lose his composure now, or he might never regain it.  “I’d like to think I would be strong enough to choose your life regardless but I will never know; that choice is no longer before us.  There is more than you and I at stake here; you know this far more intimately than me.  Tell me, could you stay with me?  Could you die, now, knowing you had a chance to live, to save our child?” 

So reflexive he hardly seemed to notice it, Grantaire’s arm curled across his stomach, the nails of his left hand digging harshly into the wood of the table.  Enjolras had seen the same motion in him before, as he stood just after Javert threw him aside, in recent nights at the café as he sat and listened, at moments he wasn’t sure he was being watched.  So easily, the need to shelter and protect had become second nature to a man who’d whispered once to Enjolras he’d thought as a boy he’d never make a decent father.  From where he stood, Enjolras could see quite the opposite. 

“Infants die; how often have you preached of it?  We cannot even be sure that-“

Moving around the table, Enjolras grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled Grantaire close.  “They will live; I know it.” 

“You never doubt, you-“

“But I do fear, and believe me, it is possible to have both fear and faith.”  He knew, because they filled him, soaked through to his soul.  As he had with the barricade, he knew the possibility of disaster remained.  Grantaire could lose the child before they were ever born, could die in childbirth himself and in either case it might be kinder to let him stay, but those were fears only, not certainties, and he rejected them.  “They will live, and so will you, if you do this.”  He filled his lungs, fingers twisting painfully tight in Grantaire’s shirt as he pushed out the words he’d tried to avoid.  “Do this for me.  You told me once you’d do anything I asked.”

“That is not a power I thought you’d ever abuse.”

“Say what you want about me, so long as you go.” 

Grantaire pulled them closer with a hand to the back of Enjolras’ neck, his grip rough and bruising, a dark contrast to the light touch of his forehead as it rested against Enjolras’.  Their breath mingled, and could feel the tremor in Grantaire’s touch, feel the tremor in his own; he could not tell whose came first. 

“How can I leave you now?”

“How could you stay?” 

Grantaire’s breath hitched, and his own came just a fraction easier.  He could feel it, through the tension in his hands and through the bond.  Whether he could say it or not, Grantaire understood.  It might not be the choice he _wanted_ to make, but Grantaire could no more stay than Enjolras could retreat.  They had found a cause they could agree on at last. 

Grantaire brought their lips together in a kiss so rough Enjolras tasted blood, wasn’t sure if it was his or Grantaire’s, wasn’t sure of much at all beyond that last grounding clash of heat and pressure and need and pain.  Breathless, he pushed Grantaire away. 

“Go.” 

“Enjolras,-“

“ _Go_.” 

He had intended better last words, had thought to say _I love you, forgive me, be careful, when they identify my body they’ll go home, they’ll have questions for you, you cannot be there when they do_ , all of it and more, some of it at least, but none of them came.  In pushing Grantaire away, he’d used what felt like his last reserve of strength. 

He did not watch him walk away.  He counted steps instead, matching pained gasps as he leaned over the table to booted footsteps down the stairs.  By the time Grantaire reached the street, he would be strong enough to stand properly; he was sure of it.  Through the window, the first dim light of dawn could be seen, the sun still down below the buildings and roofs of Paris.  If he hurried, he would have time to warn the others, to offer them a chance of their own.  The way he felt just then, he could only hope most of them would take it. 

\--------

On his way up the back stairs for the last time, Enjolras had the thought that the end would not be so bad, not so bad at all.  It had been worse to wake Combeferre at the barricade, worse to tell them all the news and feel Combeferre’s bruising grip on his arm as he tried to urge Enjolras to go to Grantaire, to get away.  He endured it for a sentence or two, held out until he could no longer; at the moment Combeferre pointed out that he should think of the fact that they were to be fathers.  He’d turned, words snapping out hard with the force of too much held in. 

 _I sent him away.  However I might have failed him in the past, you cannot say I have now._  

He hadn’t wanted to fight with Combeferre, not so close to the last, and he’d hoped the truth might settle them both.  It had indeed drawn Combeferre up short, his arm coming to rest strong around Enjolras’ shoulders as he murmured an apology he needn’t have worried about.  He wasn’t angry at Combeferre, not really; what anger he had left was only enough to spread thin between himself and those on the other side of the barricade.  Still, to see even a dull mirror of his own pain in Combeferre’s eyes as he imagined the choice Enjolras had made, that had to be worse than death itself, just as it was worse, also, to see Courfeyrac hardly given a moment to mourn Gavroche. 

In the street, he’d seen so many fall, heard the cries of his friends, felt their blood slick under his boots against the stones and all of it, all of it could only be leading to what seemed every second a more welcome end.  There in the room they’d shared so many nights he was sure it was over for him at last, sure it was the end of all those that remained.  Combeferre threw his arm up in front of Joly’s chest, wholly ineffective against bullets and tight as a vise around Enjolras’ heart; he knew the reflex, he’d done it himself the night before when he reached back to press his hand to Grantaire’s chest.  An alpha will make of their own body a shield if none other remains, but by then, it mattered little.  They fell together, the two of them and Courfeyrac.  His hand brushed Enjolras’ arm as he dropped and for a moment, Enjolras thought he only imagined that he still stood.  It lasted a heartbeat, long enough to realize that no, the pain was still too sharp for death.  The scent of death and blood surrounded him, weighed on him, and yet the sharpest pain of all still came between his ribs.  He could not be dead, not when he still felt Grantaire’s absence so starkly. 

There was nowhere left to turn, nowhere to go but to the window, close enough that he could feel against the back of his neck the light of dawn over Paris.  He knew without looking how it must look, how the gold would glint over the rooftops, the alleys still in shadow.  She was a beautiful thing, his France.  Worthy of his life, easily, and so much more.  If he could serve her as a martyr, if she could use his blood to draw more eyes to the plight of her children, his work would have been a success.  Their failure could not mean the end; everything he believed insisted upon it. 

His fingers tightened around the ragged flag in his hand, wrapping it tight.  Across their bond he could feel Grantaire’s distance, feel it grate against his nerves in a constant clamor that warned him _he’s not safe, he is vulnerable because of you, you should be with him, you must protect him, you must protect your child._   There was peace, in that.  The more it hurt, the farther he was.  Grantaire would be safe, and France would endure, and no man could hope to have achieved more with his life than that. 

With a smile, he raised the flag. 

\--------

Grantaire stumbled, hand pressing into the rough stone wall to his right as his balance faltered.  He felt he’d been hit with recoil, harsh as the snapping of a rope.  In the sudden absence of the anchor that had tried so hard to draw him back to the Musain he felt dizzy, the dull ache in his chest throbbing at the edges, like a hollowed wound.  He leaned hard on the wall, lost the battle against the nausea that came so quickly to him of late and vomited, his hand claw like against the wall as he fought to pull his stomach back under control.   

When he managed, he stood stock still, his breathing shallow as his thoughts turned inward, searching frantically for the truth he already knew.  He’d grown so accustomed to the background presence of the bond that at first it seemed unfathomable not to find it, to reach and grasp nothing of the stable warmth of his mate.  It was, he knew, a mark of desperation.  He’d known from the first instant and still he searched, panic rising in his throat with every second.  The night Grantaire had found himself unable to stand, he’d felt the moment Enjolras woke, felt his worry and love wrapped like a cloak around his shoulders long before Enjolras had found him.  In every instance of honest need, Enjolras had never failed to come to him, never failed to answer. 

“Enjolras…”  There was too much pleading in his voice, too much question for such a certainty.  He gasped for air, shut his eyes against the swell of tears that clouded his vision.  With Enjolras gone, Grantaire felt his own strength had fled along with him.   He could sink to the ground here, lay his head against the sack of all he’d managed to take from their room and lay still until the pain receded, if it could, until he was noticed or until he was forgotten, until…

_If you lie down here, you will never get up, and he will have died alone for nothing._

He drew his hand back and struck out at the wall, skin scraping bloody from his knuckles.  He scrubbed furiously at his eyes, harsh enough to hurt.  To go to pieces there was a luxury he could not afford.  He had to keep moving, had to put distance between himself and the parts of the city they’d called home before he stopped even to rest.  He wrapped the sack around his hand, a little steadied by the grit of fabric against his sore, bleeding knuckles.  A little pain like that might be just what he needed, might be enough to keep him walking.  He could not think, not of anything beyond his steps and the streets, beyond his potential destination. 

He walked on, largely aimless, stopping only to take his bearings until the overhead sun marked the day a little over half gone and he gave in to his weariness, ducking into the first inn he could find.  He dug around in the sack to pull out enough sous to pay for two nights, and he took the stairs to the room they directed him to alone, waving off their offers of food and drink.  Then, he could not even want his wine. 

Alone at last, safe behind four walls and the door he’d just shut, Grantaire didn’t even bother to try to make it to the bed.  He sank to the floor just behind the door instead, lay his head down on dusty wood planks and listened to the shuffle of commotion downstairs, to the creaks and sighs of an old building long used.  Eyes closed and head steady, his world seemed a little less on the verge of spinning. 

The room had spun around him the very first moment their bond took hold, his nerves already overloaded with the wildness of heat and the swell of Enjolras’ knot as he filled him, the near immobilizing, unexpected pleasure of Enjolras’ teeth on the back of his neck.  Such a simple thing, and yet he’d felt cherished, felt desired and protected.  No sooner had he leaned into that then it started, the stir of something deeper, and he’d called on arms gone limp to reach back and hold Enjolras to him, for no matter how close they were, it was not enough, never enough.  They kissed, and Enjolras had stopped the whirlwind, stopped the pains of his heat, stopped even his breath for a moment as Grantaire opened his eyes.  Of all the ways he’d seen his Apollo, all the nights he’d studied those beautiful eyes as they burned for France, he’d never dreamed of such a sight, never dreamed Enjolras might look at him the way he was sure he did at Enjolras- as a man staring into the sun. 

Grantaire’s head ached incessantly, and he pressed it harder against the floor, seeking stability.  The tighter shut he squeezed his eyes, the harder it seemed to pound.  His arms tightened around his stomach, a hold he’d not consciously taken up but couldn’t help but notice then, his hands tightening into fists just below his ribs.  Not even the bite of his fingernails into his palms made a dent in the sharp jabs in his head , didn’t begin to touch the deeper pain in his chest.  Exhausted, Grantaire curled in on himself just a little tighter and wept. 

\--------

The first day, he was useless.  The second, he ate.  He could think through that much, dully at least.  He had to keep up his strength, had to exist, had to eat(and drink his wine, because if he didn’t, the rest would become less bearable).  By the third, he felt no less hollow, but he’d come back to enough semblance of proper thinking to realize he couldn’t stay at the inn any longer.  There were a million ways to disappear in Paris, particularly for a man like him who wasn’t even actively being hunted, but the thought had him shaking his head, tipping the bottle up just a little higher against his lips.  He’d had enough of Paris, could only see blood in her streets every time he looked out the damn window. 

In the back of his sketchbook he’d kept a letter, received before March, before he’d left his rooms to move in with Enjolras. 

_R,_

_I remember a time when you were so very good at answering my letters.  I swear to you, anything you tell me will be in confidence; I know you want no word of your wellbeing or otherwise to reach father.  You should know it already, but I am not him; I only miss you.  I hope you have maintained your studies.  I have yet to see a painting that so much as resembles yours, and no, I do not say it because I must._

_I doubt you’ll answer, but I wanted you to know- I miss you, and should like to see you.  I hardly expect you to visit here, but I intend to spend the summer in Paris, at our old address.  Come, if you can.  Please._

_With all my love,_

_Jacqueline_

He smoothed his thumb over the R at the top, already a little worn, as he’d done it before.  As children, they had been close.  She was six years his elder, loving and kind and forever generous with the little brother that trailed around in her shadow, eager in those days to coax her into adventures.  Grown to a man, he’d loved her no less, but he was an artist expected by his father to be respectable, and after leaving those walls he’d had little desire to return.  He’d been there for her wedding and had seen her since, at moments, but rarely.  He had not seen Jacqueline for over a year. 

A dozen times he’d picked up pencil or quill, intent on writing her about Enjolras, about the child he carried and yet he’d never followed through, always choosing to let it slip from his fingers.  How could he give her such news, when he was fully certain he would be telling her of circumstances she would never have the chance to view for herself?  No, it had seemed much kinder that his death should come as a surprise, if she received news of it at all. 

Now, his thoughts had changed.  She had a home in Marseilles, a house she shared with her husband and no children.  If he could but stay with her a few months at the least, take some time away from Paris…

She was, under the circumstances, his best chance.  The decision made, he allowed himself one more day at the inn.  If he stayed another night, he might could drink himself into a few hours of sleep.  To face her and the questions she was sure to ask, he would need strength he was not at all sure he had. 

\--------

“ _Grantaire_?  And I was so sure you wouldn’t come!” 

She was on him before he could speak, arms flung around his neck to hold him tight before she remembered her propriety and let him go, smoothing her dress as she stepped back.  Blushing, she looked every bit the young woman he’d known so well. 

For her, he smiled, a little.  “Jacqueline.  It does me good to see you are well.” 

“I’ve hardly been better; please, come sit!”  She fussed around him as he stepped further into the hall, tried to take the sack from him to give to the maid who’d come to the door though he shook his head, holding on tight. 

“It’s alright, I’ll keep it.” 

If her suspicion would not have come on its own, that was certainly enough to begin to rouse it, he could see.  She looked him over again, cataloguing the way she had when he was a boy.  Eyes having clearly caught on his scabbed knuckles, she reached out and took his hand, gingerly. 

“Where have you been?” 

Of course, she would have heard of the barricades; who in Paris had not?  Throat tight, he pulled his hand away, paced the length of the room to stand by the cool hearth, empty of fire.  Beside it, she kept bookshelves, full of leather bound volumes she would likely be glad to tell him about at length, if he let her. 

“I would ask a favor of you.” 

“You know you need only name it.”  Such worry.  She had hovered more than their mother. 

“I had hoped I might stay with you, for some time.” 

“For something you know I’ve desired since you left home, you say it with such trepidation.”  Her hand against his shoulder came as a shock, gentle though it made his jaw clench.  He was far too accustomed to other hands.  She must have caught a flinch in him, some hardly conscious twitch for she pulled her hand away, though she stepped closer still as her voice dropped to a whisper.  “What has happened to you?  Are you hurt?  I can-“

“No, presently, I’ve no need of a doctor.”  Though eventually, he would.  He realized it with a pang, reached out to lean against the mantle.  They had thought Joly or Combeferre might deliver the child, if…

There was always an ‘if’, rarely spoken but always present. 

She would not be easy until he gave her something, that much was obvious.  He would do well to get it over with, say it quick and hope she might let him rest.  No matter if he slept or not, the past days had been filled only with fatigue. 

“I was at the barricades, in Saint Michel.”  From the corner of his eye he could see Jacqueline reach out to him again and he raised his voice, cutting her off.  “Please, let me finish.”  She nodded, and he swallowed.  His tongue felt dry.  “My mate was killed.”  Roughly as he rushed the words out, they still sliced at him; saying his name would have been impossible.  He heard her gasp, knew the shock so much knowledge at once had to have brought her but he could not stop, not if he wanted to get the rest out at all.   “I would have stayed with him, but I could not-“  His words caught, his throat working fruitlessly a moment before he managed.  “I carry his child.  The chance the baby might survive was too great to ignore, and so I am here, and if you say I may stay with you, I beg you ask me no questions, not now.” 

In her silence he shut his eyes, leaned forward to rest his head against the back of his hand on the mantle and breathed, counting.  Life was easier, lately, if he reduced it to simple facts.  He needed air, needed focus, needed-

The second time, the feel of her hand against his spine didn’t feel quite so unwelcome.  She rubbed slowly, comfortingly, as she had when he was ill as a boy.  His eyes burned, and he breathed in sharply.  He had not cried since that first afternoon; he could not let it happen now, not where she could see. 

“Come, R.”  The old nickname made him breathe just a little easier, a touch of her warmth sinking into his skin.  “Let me show you to the guest room.” 

“I cannot stay in Paris.”  He felt guilty saying it, guilty for asking so much of her, guilty for coming at all.  Her hand pressed a little more firmly against his back just before she drew it away, her voice retreating. 

“Then as soon as you have rested, we shall make arrangements to go home.  I had thought you might visit one year, you know, and now I will have you in Marseilles at last.” 

Nodding, though he knew she could not see, Grantaire turned to follow the sound of her footsteps. 

\--------

At first, Jacqueline kept to the silent agreement she’d made the day he showed up on her doorstep.  She was careful with him those first weeks, slow and patient even after they’d left Paris, after she’d brought him back to Marseilles and settled him into a room with a view of the garden.  Her husband, Bernard, was kind but reserved; just as well, for as a ship owner he was often busy. 

As the summer carried on Jacqueline did not press him, let Grantaire keep to his own as he would, only interrupting his solitude to send him meals or bring them herself, to coax him to sit with her now and then.  She let him retreat, and he welcomed it, though he found no solace in it.  He left books half read, had not made so much as two lines to paper before he threw sketches angrily away.  He woke from dreams he only sometimes remembered, his face wet as he considered again and again that he did not know how Enjolras had died.  He knew only that he had been happy the moment before; he had felt it, just before the shock of loss that had set him reeling.  Most of all, he wondered if he had been alone, if Combeferre or Courfeyrac was with him.  Selfishly, he had to hope they were.  There was nothing like loneliness. 

As July stretched toward August the sun grew blazing hot, the room stifling even in the relative cool of morning.  He lay as late in bed as he ever had, bare chested, the sheet kicked down around his feet, and he gasped as he felt in his abdomen the first flutterings of movement, soft as a mouse.  He pressed his hand to his stomach, searching, but from the outside there was nothing, no sign of the sensation that had sent shivers up his spine. 

On one of the first hot nights of Paris, Enjolras had curled around him, his chin resting over Grantaire’s belly, palm pressed a little lower. 

_“When do you think-“_

_“Not yet.  If not for the other signs; I’d not know myself there was anything there at all.”_

_“Mm.”  His hand remained, still feeling, perhaps, for the unreachable.  Grantaire carded his fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his eyes._

_“I’ll tell you when I do, shall I?”_

_“Please.”_

Grantaire rolled onto his side, face buried in the pillow.  For the moment, he had no desire for even his halfhearted attempts to pass the time.  The sea breeze came in through the window, blowing cool across his back, and he watched the progression of the sun in patches across his floor.  Try as he might, he could not find sleep again. 

\--------

By August, Jacqueline seemed to think she had handled him gently long enough. 

She started in a roundabout way, her hands squeezing lightly at his shoulders one afternoon as he sat with her in her drawing room. 

“I miss your paintings.” 

“You’ve not seen the recent ones; you miss nothing, I assure you.” 

“You know I can’t believe you; you never give yourself enough credit.  You know, I could-“

“Not now.”  He didn’t want to be short with her, didn’t mean to be but the thought of painting anything at all sounded an impossibility.  The urge had left him, more completely than he’d have ever imagined.  With a blank canvas before him, he would not have had the faintest idea where to begin. 

She let it be, then, temporarily acquiescent.  Her next attempt was far less ambiguous.  Two nights later, at the time the maid customarily brought him his bottle of wine, Jacqueline came instead with a glass, ¾ full.  She pressed it firmly to his hands, her eyes on his. 

“Less of this will do you far more good.” 

“I’ve already-“

“Decreased your intake; you told me.  However, you still drink enough wine to drown a small village-“

“That isn’t-“

“-and it needs to stop.  It will not help you-“

“How can you know what-“

“-cannot be good for you-“

“It does its work well enough.”

“-and I highly doubt it can be good for the child you carry; not the way you drink it.” 

There, she had him.  His fingers tightened on the stem of the glass, and he watched the ripples on the wine’s dark surface.  He was, after all, only alive for the sake of the possibility that he could carry the pregnancy to term.  If he failed in that, he had no purpose, none at all.  Still, Joly had not said a word to him about it beyond the nausea, and the thought of no drink to ease his mind was unfathomable. 

“Wise or not, I have need of it.” 

Wrapping her hands around his, she tipped the cup to his lips, coaxing him to drink, holding on still even when he’d stopped. 

“There.  Do you feel better?”

“Jacqueline,-“

“Do you ever?  Because I have seen no change in you, not since you’ve come here; there is only you drunk and you sober, which happens far too rarely, but your temper is the same no matter your state.” 

Grantaire shook his head, downed the rest of the glass before shoving it back into her hands to pace away. 

“And how, pray, would you expect me to be?”

“I would hardly know, Grantaire.  I cannot begin to imagine.”  Her honesty sympathy stopped him, head bowed as he stood turned away from her, arms crossed against his chest.  She had not once so much as attempted to belittle his pain, not once told him he had not suffered so great a loss.  He had no reason to treat her unfairly. 

“Forgive me.” 

“No forgiveness is needed.”  Tentatively, she reached for his shoulder to turn him, her touch as soft as the question in her dark brown eyes, so different from his own.  “But you would tell me anything, once.  I make no promises, but I can at least guarantee you that the wine has made no change in you.  You might try speaking with me.” 

If she _did_ have a point(and she might, at that.  The solitude was welcome, particularly at first, but he was not so sure it wasn’t also driving him mad.), where would he even begin?  Did he start with how he’d gone to Paris to study art, only to meander one night into a group of students who had become not so covert revolutionaries in the upstairs room of a small café?  Did he start with the moment he saw Enjolras across the room speaking, the way his heart had leapt to his throat as he first caught his alpha’s scent?  Did he tell of how he’d known his life was changed, how the scent had burned in his throat, wild and full of spice, sharp with a tang of metal? 

Grantaire licked his lips, took a breath to steady himself.  “His name was Enjolras.” 

Jacqueline took his face in her hands, pulled him forward to kiss his forehead.  “Thank you.”  

\-------

Talking about him did not get any easier, but it _did_ become an imperative.  After so long without saying his name, the painful burn it brought felt almost good, likely because it brought any feeling with it at all.  After spending most of his days in a careful haze numb with misery, it felt not such a bad thing to remember, much as it might cause him pain. 

Jacqueline’s questions led him, often hesitant in their probing even after he began to answer her.  Her first, though understandable from his elder sister, tore at him almost more than any other. 

“He was…he was good to you?”  From where they sat side by side on the garden bench he could see her blush out of the corner of his eye, telling enough to lead him to her thoughts even if he had not put it together immediately himself.  As a beta herself, Jacqueline had often feared for him, when he first came into his heats.  She was old enough then to have heard horror stories of what could happen to an omega in heat caught among desperate alphas; the thought terrified her all the more because all of it was utterly outside of her experience.  She could properly understand it from neither side, and so the danger that faced her little brother seemed all the more pressing. 

He turned his eyes up to the sun, squinting into its light as the thought flitted through his mind first of all he could never and would never tell her, all he had never even told Enjolras.  Twice, as a student, he’d been taken by alphas that had set upon him roughly in the back room of a bar, catching him at the beginning of his heat before he’d locked himself away but while he was already needy and still too drunk to care.  It had been a single mating each time, not enough to ensure a pregnancy in either case(and he’d been lucky) but still, they’d left their mark.  He’d regretted both, felt sick and violated though any court would have argued that as an omega who’d known his heat was coming, he had no one to blame but himself. 

Enjolras had suspected, he knew; it was all too clear in his half veiled remarks to Grantaire’s past, in the assertions of possession he growled against Grantaire’s neck.  He had almost spoken of it once, once more on a night of particular indulgence in absinthe, but at all times he’d managed to reason with himself that no good could come of him knowing; the knowledge could only hurt him.  He would find some way to blame himself, in all likelihood, and _that_ Grantaire wouldn’t have, not for the world.  No, it was over and done and he had long since accepted it and Enjolras’ hands burned so welcome against his skin and _nothing_ nothing else mattered.  By his counting, it had only ever been the two of them. 

Grantaire stretched his arm across the back of the bench, arm resting just behind her shoulders as he put her mind at ease.  “He was indeed.  More than you would wish to hear.”  For her sake, he had to add it, had to try and smile.  His body realized only the discrepancy between memory and absence, and the fingers of his left hand twitched with the urge to press against his neck, searching.  Not so long ago, he’d have been able to find at the very least a single bruise there, the slight twinge that came when he pressed his fingertips to it a reminder of red hot pleasure, of Enjolras’ teeth and tongue and the way his eyes burned when he caught a glimpse of his handiwork behind Grantaire’s open collar.    

“I thought he had to be; you love him so, I only-“

“Must mother me now you again have the chance; yes, I know.” 

She laughed, and he kissed her hair, and she rested against his shoulder with such ease that were it not for the ever present pain between his ribs, he might have felt a little better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I found out there is nothing on R's sister save a sentence or two in the movie script, here is my head!canon(for this fic at least, lol)
> 
> You won't see too terribly much of her(because I swear to fucking God this thing is wrapping up), but I hope you like her alright, ^^
> 
> ...also, I am so sorry about Enjolras, God I am, but it had to happen, and just....know that I wrote that last scene between the two of them on a dim laptop with the power out in my house and I cried and was miserable and then went and lit a bunch of candles and read the Brick to cheer myself up....reading the Brick is not a good way to cheer up, necessarily.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short but-
> 
> A. It seemed like a good endpoint for a chapter and
> 
> B. I wanted to give you guys something, :)

“What did the doctor tell you?” 

Jacqueline’s voice floated toward him from the door and he looked back to motion her in, sitting down on the edge of his bed as he did.  He rested his hand against the growing swell of his stomach, murmuring softly first to the little thing that kicked against his palm. 

“Do you ever settle down, hm?  He never did.”  He talked to himself, to ears unopened, to the air itself, and Jacqueline knew it.  She didn’t comment, took a seat beside him and asked again, a little more pointedly.

“You’re alright?  As far as he can tell?”

“As far as he can tell.  The only complication he foresees is a common one; he doubts my ability to feed him properly.”  There were, honestly, very few male omegas who could.  Their bodies might be made for carrying and bearing but they were not so well formed for nursing.  Scientists believed the modern difficulty to be a holdover from pack and herd dynamics, for among animals, there were answers.  Within a pack, female omegas who had not mated were seen to produce milk for young not their own; in that absence, alpha females had on occasion been known to provide as well(though in that case, it was often for their offspring alone.).   In his circumstance, even had everything gone perfectly, neither of them would have been suited for the task.  “By his estimation, if I can feed him at all, it might last no more than a day.  It’s no worry; the man’s well used to it.  He will bring the formula when he comes for the birth.” 

Jacqueline turned, smiling softly as she nudged his shoulder.  “Feed _him_?”

“A guess.”  Not that he had any idea, none at all.  Under the circumstances, he had never spoken to Enjolras of such details, never progressed to sex and names and concrete plans.  These were thoughts he’d had alone, in the last few weeks as his stomach expanded and he began to talk absently to his overactive passenger when he woke in the middle of the night, too sober to sleep.  It was a strange place, the arena his mind currently inhabited.  The tangible proof of life inside him brought along a host of emotions, currents that dragged him until he wanted only the comfort of his drink. 

It was senseless, perhaps, but already he was reminded of Enjolras, ever moving, only driven to peace by extreme pleasure or extreme exhaustion.  Grantaire often woke early to the feel of rapid motion, reminding him that he could not deny that he had wanted precisely this, had realized after the mist of his heat lifted that despite their circumstances, there was a spark in him that clung to the thought of bearing his Apollo’s child.  It was instinct, perhaps, but more than that, more than the desire to provide his lover with a legacy.  Much as he held affection for children, Grantaire had never before been confidant in his own abilities enough to feel at ease with the thought of raising one himself.  Always before, though, he had considered such a prospect alone, an omega devoid of a mate as could happen so very often in Paris.  But then…

In all his life, he had never known a better man than Enjolras.  Terrifying he might be at the height of his anger, but his tenderness when he chose to show it was equally moving.   Of the two of them, _he_ was the natural father; Grantaire was sure of it, and his nerves on that count had settled.  Enjolras, as always, would excel where he himself would likely stumble.  In a perfect world, at least, it might have been so.  As it was, there was always the revolution, always the insistent call of France and he had mulled it over nights at the Musain, watching Enjolras across the room as he drank. 

Had he his will, Grantaire would want a family with him, would want to argue with him on the education of their children and watch amused as they outgrew both parents’ expectations.  Mired as they were in blood and disaster, a family was a luxury they would not be afforded.  They would be lucky indeed to last out the year.  When he considered the question he was torn between the two, logic and desire, and so he did his best to put such thoughts from his mind so long as he could, to drink and laugh and be recklessly pleased his god had deigned to lower himself to love such a battered creature.  That first month, he was not sure that Enjolras knew it, but every night he spent in Enjolras’ bed was passed in varying states of awe.  It mattered little that he was sure by then it was no dream; it remained hard to swallow as reality even so. 

The memories had not dimmed.  He could recall it perfectly, could feel the ghost of the trip in his heartbeat that had come as Enjolras came home from a rare night later than his own.  Grantaire had been stretched out beneath the covers, watching the door with half open eyes in the light of the low fire, and he hadn’t risen, had barely murmured an acknowledgement of his presence.  Enjolras had nodded at him, fingers already maneuvering the buttons on his shirt as he made his way to the bed.  Grantaire watched as he shook out his shirt and folded it, his trousers joining it a moment later atop his trunk and then he was there, sliding under the blankets to wrap his arm around Grantaire’s waist, the tip of his nose cold as he nuzzled into Grantaire’s neck. 

_You’re warm._

_An illusion; you only think so because you are a little more frozen.  It is very nearly as bad here as on the streets, I would imagine._

Enjolras silenced him with a kiss, shifted their positions until he could cover Grantaire like he preferred, rising up slightly on deceptively strong arms to slide their stirring cocks together as they kissed.  He was full of affection that night, gentle with hands that were sometimes rough enough to make Grantaire gasp(though never too rough, never, not even when Enjolras thought they were).  Eventually, those beautiful long fingers had wrapped around both of them, and Grantaire had come whimpering, had felt he could almost fall apart again as Enjolras whispered against his ear, _Have you any idea what that sound does to me?_

Enjolras had come with his cheek pressed to Grantaire’s, panting heavily, and though the echoed pleasure along their bond had made Grantaire’s back arch lazily, it was what followed that drew his breath up short, hands stilling as they rubbed against Enjolras' back.  Through the bond, beneath the welcome current of warmth and love he could feel Enjolras’ anxiety, a restless tension Grantaire couldn’t pin down, even when he tried to focus on it. 

He cupped Enjolras’ face in his hands, kissed him softly before he spoke, at a whisper.

 _Tell me, Enjolras._   No further explanation was given, and none needed. 

He shook his head, hair brushing against Grantaire’s cheek as he kissed along his collarbone.  _I would have been earlier if I-_

_I don’t mind waiting._

Enjolras had kissed him then with such urgency Grantaire had thought to question him again, but he was so insistent, his mouth hot and wet and distracting, and they had kissed until their movements turned sleepy, Enjolras rolling over to draw Grantaire onto his chest.  Falling asleep there he’d had the flash of a thought that Enjolras seemed honestly happy, with him.  Far as he had come from watching Enjolras from across the room, the notion still seemed dangerous.  Enjolras was a great man; it was never safe for such a man to have too much to lose. 

He knew it, knew all of it and more besides, knew France would always win and it would always hurt and he would always accept it, always know his place but he had failed to count the ripple effects the bond would have on both of them.  They built a life together and they had weeks that felt like minutes and years and he became certain about the baby and he tried not to hope for much because how could he? 

As ever, Enjolras was hope embodied. 

When he managed to escape the nightmares, in his dreams Grantaire sometimes relived those early moments of June, Enjolras’ arms an anchor around his waist as he said, _I want all of it now._  

The first night, it had only made him angry.  Seething, he’d dug out the bottle he’d stashed under the bed and sat against the wall, head often resting on his drawn up knee between drinks.  How could he, how _dare_ he say he wanted everything he stood ready to abandon?  It was hard enough to love him, harder still to think of losing him but to hear _that_ was almost too much.  The words had played over and over in his head until he smashed the bottle against the opposite wall, desperate for the sound of the shattering to stop the ringing of Enjolras’ voice, the sharp bite of all the retorts that burned his tongue.

_How badly did you want it, Enjolras? As a wistful thought?  As a dream, perhaps?  Was it something close to the wanting a child feels for the one thing they know they are denied?  Was it really so much easier to die for France than it would have been to live for me?_

In the end, he’d talked himself out of his rage with the even more painful truth- Enjolras had meant every word.  He had been, every moment, utterly sincere.  His devotion to France was unbreakable; his love for Grantaire immovable.  He had, in effect, willingly let himself be torn apart by both.  He had done the best he could.  No anger could hold against that. 

Shaking, his vision blurred, he’d picked up the scattered glass, cut his fingers in shallow slices along the sides that he’d hardly have noticed drunk as he was if his grip hadn’t gone slick and red with blood.  He let the glass fall, tugged the edge of the sheet down farther from the bed to press against the cuts, and he wondered not for the first time if the dead truly could see the living.  In that moment, he would have given all he could offer if it could have possibly ensured that if only for the night, Enjolras could not. 

He licked his lips, whispered roughly, _I know; you’d be angry with me.  Well, you must make allowances.  I’m afraid I am even less fit to function in your absence than I was before.  Surely you can forgive me that._  

He was met with only the sounds of the crickets outside in the garden, and though he first laughed at himself for his foolishness, when he curled up again in bed he’d felt a little better.  Lying on his side, the blanket wrapped across his shoulders, he’d thought again of Enjolras’ words, and for the first time since he’d first heard them, they again seemed comforting.  It had not been so hard to fall asleep, after that. 

He hadn’t hit such a point again, but his thoughts and his heart both had seemed to be in a constant swing, pushed violently between hope and despair.  He struggled with everything, pain a constant corollary to every memory and every thought, every attempt to come to terms with his life. 

He shared with Jacqueline what he could, a bit of the past, a bit of the present.  It was enough to please her, and enough, it seemed, to ease himself a bit, but most of it, most of it would have been far too hard to explain, would have only possibly made sense to Enjolras if it ever made sense at all.  He wondered, sometimes, if it was how Enjolras had felt, those last days, caught up in highs and lows and impossibilities. 

Of all he considered, all he hoped for and feared, the sex of the baby he’d bring into the world seemed a minor consideration.  He had merely sought for a way to address them, and with his head so full of memories, ‘he’ had seemed natural.  To hear Jacqueline take notice both amused and pained him, a reminder that in a typical pregnancy, such a question would likely have been the topic of heavy discussion. 

She reached out to take his hand, squeezing it gently.  “I hope you’re right.  It would be a blessing, to have a child so like him.” 

Grantaire nodded, didn’t trust himself to answer.  To be honest, his only concern was the same one he’d had the day he left the barricade- to bring their baby to life.  Details were irrelevant. 

\--------

With the onset of fall, Grantaire managed to finish a book.  It was harder to be restless, harder to pace when he felt like doing little more than resting, when even resting tired him.  The further along he became the more nothing seemed comfortable, his back aching even in his bed.  He chose most often chairs by the fire, and he managed to read sometimes for quite a long stretch before he longed for Enjolras’ nimble fingers to press into his muscles and ease the ache.  He would have been so very good at it, found just the right pressure as he kissed Grantaire’s neck and muttered low about how he needed to take care of himself, needed to be sure not to wear himself out. 

At those points, he gave up in favor of looking into the fire, watching it burn and remembering how as a boy, he’d loved to pass his finger through the tips of candle flame.  

In October, he dug out the sack he’d brought with him from their room in Saint Michel, searched through the contents for the first time since he’d taken all the money out on arriving in Marseilles.  He had not saved much.  There was the Robespierre waistcoat he’d worn the day he went for Enjolras to the Barriere du Maine, his sketchbook, and a shirt of Enjolras’ he’d yanked at random from his things before he left.  He’d hurried, worked quick to keep from losing the will to leave but he’d damn well been determined to have something, so he’d shoved it down in the sack with hardly a glance.  Months gone past, it didn’t smell like him anymore when Grantaire drew it out to bury his face in the collar.  There was, perhaps, a faint hint, but more than likely, it was only his imagination, the power of hope bringing the familiar smell to mind.  He folded it with the utmost care, slipped it back into the sack to rest against the brilliant red of his coat.  The sketchbook, he kept out, though he slid it unopened into the drawer of his desk. 

For the time being, the act of moving it had been enough. 

\--------

“Grantaire, you need to let me-“

“It can’t be; it’s too soon.”  But it _was_ , he knew it was, could feel his body rebelling against him as he panted against the intermittent pain.  It was only November, three weeks at least by his counting before he should have been giving birth and no, no that was too soon, what if he wasn’t ready, wasn’t strong, what if- 

“Grantaire,-“

“ _I promised him_ , I can’t-“  He choked, gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.  He _hadn’t_ promised, not exactly, but the intent had been there all the same.  Enjolras had been the one to say it to _him_ ; if he left, the baby would live.  Enjolras had believed it, after all, and no matter his doubts, he could never fail to believe in Enjolras.  His head was full of pain and statistics, stillbirths and infant mortality and fear, hovering in the shadow of the vastness of paternal emotions he hadn’t been fully prepared for.  He’d wanted the child, certainly, had sought to protect them, but _this_ , this was something else.  He took a shaky breath, licked his lips and wondered when he’d bitten hard enough to draw blood.  “I cannot lose this baby.”

Jacqueline’s thumb swiped against his cheek, wiping a tear he hadn’t felt.  “I don’t believe you will, but you need help I cannot give you.  Let me go send for the doctor; I won’t leave you long.” 

The pain in his abdomen receded, for the time being, and he relaxed, his clenched fingers going limp against the blankets.  He shivered, half from relief at the lack of pain and half from cold, and Jacqueline tucked the top blanket closer around him.  Conceding, he nodded once, his breath catching slightly as he felt her weight leave the edge of the bed.  Eyes closed, he rested his hands against his stomach, rubbing lightly.  There was no answering movement, no typical somersault, and he tried his best to keep his breathing even, to stave off panic another moment at least.  He bit his lip, barely noticed the trickle of blood against his tongue. 

“Enjolras… _please_.”  He wasn’t sure what he asked for, wasn’t sure what he expected.  He’d never been a praying man, but speaking to _him_ , that much he could do. 

\--------

Hours later his world narrowed further, the mist of pain and worry broken only momentarily by the press of a hand to his forehead, the feel of fingers intertwined with his own(though they never stayed there long, never held up under the pressure.  He understood; her hands were thinner than his after all, but he thought of Enjolras’ fingers, of the strength in those hands, and he wondered if it would ever occur to them to think that not every cry that left his lips came from the pain between his legs.).  

The doctor’s voice interjected here and there to tell him he was proceeding just fine, to push, to focus.  Jacqueline tried to soothe him, wipe the sweat from his skin, sweep his hair from his eyes.  Neither helped, but it was not their fault; all that would help would be certainty.  Until then, nothing else could matter. 

He lost time, lost track of all but the pain and fear, right until the moment struggled so hard he was almost sure he could feel his ribs crack, and he was finished.  A sharp cry cut the room and he tried to laugh, made an unidentifiable strangled noise instead as he let his arms give out, his body collapsing fully back against the bed.  For the first time in hours, he felt truly weak.  He funneled all effort into his tongue and his eyelids, fought a moment with what seemed a disproportionate amount of effort before he could force out the words, “Are they-“

“She’s fine; she’s just fine.  A bit small, but you have a healthy daughter, monsieur.  But you are exhausted, you must-“

He managed to shake his head once, an accomplishment that pleased him.  “No.  Give her to me.”  _Her_.  A girl, a baby girl…  He could not properly process it, could only feel the swell of warmth that tried to bring a smile to his lips.  From some distance across the room, her cries were quieting. 

He could hear them muttering, the doctor and his sister and the maid whose presence he’d hardly even noticed, and he struggled to push his eyes back open(when had he closed them?) just as Jacqueline’s hand pressed softly against his cheek. 

“R, listen to me.”  She sounded troubled, pained enough that he managed to catch her eyes.  If there was something wrong, something they hadn’t told him…

He struggled to rise up on his arms, failed miserably and kept trying.  “Please, is she-“

“The doctor has her, she is just fine, but he tells me you lost a great deal of blood, and you need-“

“I will do whatever you want if you give her to me, please, God, I need-“

“Be still.”  It was a sad thing, that she could restrain him.  He’d always been the stronger, even when she was so much older, even when…  But no, he had to focus. 

“Jacqueline,-“

“Alright, alright, but let me help you.”  She slid another pillow beneath his shoulders, stroked his hair aside as she murmured much more softly.  “Can you hold her?” 

“ _Yes_.”  There was no question of it, none at all.  He would pull the strength from somewhere, if only they would let him try. 

“Open your eyes for me then.” 

With such an incentive, he was sure he could have managed anything.  He blinked and there she was at his side, cradled in Jacqueline’s arms and wrapped in a white blanket.  He reached out to take her, his arms moving on their own accord; Jacqueline helped wrap them around the bundle she gave him, but it wasn’t needed.  He held on for all he was worth and more.  She squirmed in the crook of his arm, looked up at him with eyes blue as the sea.  At the top of the blanket they’d wrapped her in he could just see a wisp of hair, blonde and fine and still damp; for that, he did manage something that came close to a laugh.  Dipping his head, he pressed his lips to her forehead, overcome with affection as the act only made her turn closer. 

God, he’d never felt so tired.  He nuzzled against her blanket, his eyes fluttering shut.  Before he knew it, Jacqueline was prising her gently from his arms.  He tried to murmur in dissent, but he wasn’t sure he managed. 

“It’s alright; I’ll hold her.  She’ll be just fine.”  She said it so slow, like calming a wild dog.  He would have to remember to tease her about that, later.  

Devoid of weight, his arms went limp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not done yet, do not panic. ...or kill me. please. lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken so long, guys! I had to write Carolina Drama cause it wouldn't leave my brain, and then some stuff's been happening and....anyway, I am sorry this is late, but I hope you enjoy it, <3 You guys are fucking awesome, ^^

Grantaire woke disoriented.  A dull ache seemed to spread from his shoulders all the way down his body and he felt weighed down, too heavy to move at first.  Even so he felt he had to, a restless unease he couldn’t place pushing him to stir until he remembered, his breath catching.  He’d actually done it, managed to give birth to their child despite his fears.  Before he even managed to open his eyes, he felt a firm grip against his wrist as his hand was lifted to take his pulse. 

“It’s good to see you awake.”

The shutters were drawn, though even the slight light that spilled in around the cracks seemed harsh to his eyes at first.  Grantaire blinked against the burn, struggled to sit up and shift the pillows back behind him.  _God_ , he hurt.  The doctor’s hands steadied him, slowing and guiding him to lean back against the headboard of the bed. 

“Easy, easy.  You’re going to be weak for some time; giving birth can be quite the drain on a body.  Move slowly.” 

Grantaire swallowed, testing.  His throat felt scratchy, but not so much worse than a bad night of drinking could do. 

“My baby, where is she?”  His hands flexed, his head almost dizzy as the words continued to tumble around in it.  _My baby, my baby…_   The anxious need to have her within eyesight was almost painful. 

“With your sister, and her husband.  They didn’t want her to wake you; I told them it’d be best if you could rest.” 

“I have, and-“

“And now you can continue to do so.”  The doctor caught his eye, the gold rimmed frames of his glasses glinting in the light.  “You need to listen to me.  You want to take care of your daughter, yes?” 

 _More than anything_.  He nodded, quiet. 

“Then you must first take care of yourself.  You are alright, for the time being.  If your condition was going to deteriorate in ways I could not affect, it would likely have already done so; all the same, you had a difficult time of it.  I recommend at least a week’s bed rest; you should be on your feet as little as possible.  This is important, monsieur Grantaire.  That said,-“  His lips turned up in a small smile as he stood, hooking his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat.  “I know that look, the one you’ve been giving me since you woke up.  Nearly all new parents are the same.  You’ll rest easier so long as she is with you; I know.  I’ll tell them to bring her to you, on my way out.  It should be time for her next feeding soon anyway.  I’ve already given instruction on that to your sister, and I’ll be back to check on both of you in a week unless you have need to send for me sooner.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I’ve told the kitchen of your condition; you must stick for the time being to the diet they serve you.  Your blood must replenish.” 

Not that he was willing to admit it, not to the doctor, but he would have to agree.  He felt woozy, his neck weak now that he’d been sitting up a moment.  Nodding no longer seemed so easy.  He tipped his head forward once instead. 

“Congratulations again, monsieur.  She is a lovely infant.” 

From what he’d seen of her, Grantaire could already wholeheartedly agree.  Chilled, he pulled the blankets up high around him as he tried to wait patiently for Jacqueline.  He wasn’t sure how long exactly he’d been largely out of consciousness, with moments he remembered through a heavy fog, snatches of the doctor’s hands and the shifting of fabric around him as sheets were changed and pillows adjusted.  He knew only that it was some time in afternoon, he was freezing and weak and starving, and none of that mattered so much as the emptiness of the bassinet against the wall beside his nightstand.  Jacqueline had insisted he buy it early, just to be ready…

The cracked door creaked open, and he looked up to see Jacqueline, a slightly squirming bundle tucked into the crook of her arm.  She held a bottle in her hand, and her eyes lit up the moment she saw him, her steps quickening. 

“Grantaire, he told me to leave you, but I-“

“I’m alright; I’m alright.”  He held his hands out, beckoning.  “Here.  How is she?” 

“Wanting her father, I suspect.”  As soon as she reached him Grantaire took the baby, gently, ignored the spike of _so am I_ that her words had brought.  He couldn’t dwell on it, not then, not with the tiny thing in his arms opening her mouth around the most pitiful cry he’d ever heard.  “She’s not happy I woke her, though.  Your child already.”  Laughing softly at her own words, she held the bottle out until he shifted the baby’s weight to take it.  “There.  She’ll settle for you, once you feed her.” 

He tucked her carefully against his side and guided the bottle to her lips, smiling as she kicked against his arm the minute her lips closed around the tip.  Calming to a much slower squirm, her eyes blinked up at his. 

“Hello there, little one.”  Her hand waved, coming up to cling to his thumb where he held the bottle.  His breath caught, and he tried not to hold her too tightly. 

Jacqueline’s arm slid around him, her chin resting lightly against his shoulder.  “You had me frightened, you know, Grantaire.  I was so worried about you.”

“I’m alright.”  Entranced, he could hardly draw his attention away enough to properly focus.  Tired as he still was, one task at a time was all he could manage. 

“Thank God for that.”  She kissed his hair lightly, squeezed his shoulder as she pulled away.  “Have you thought of a name for her?  I know you thought-“

“Marcheline.”  He’d had plenty of time to think it over lately, restricted as he had been.  He’d been almost sure it would be his choice for a daughter before, but now that he saw her, he was decided.  It was name suited to a time of revolution, still soft and beautiful off the tongue even so.  He shifted his thumb against the bottle, her fingers still clinging stubbornly to his.  “Her name is Marcheline.” 

“Marcheline.  It’s beautiful.  It suits her.”  Jacqueline’s fingers brushed through the downy hair on her head, smoothing the pale yellow strands that had become ruffled against the blanket wrapped around her.  “You never told me what he looked like.” 

“No.  But it seems you’ll be able to see for yourself.”  She was so small, too small to properly tell, and perhaps his eyes were too biased to be sure anyway, but looking at her, he could see nothing of himself.  She would, it seemed, be an image of Enjolras.  So much the better; there was no part of him he would wish on an innocent child. 

“I’ll leave you with her.  You deserve some time.”  He hummed his thanks, didn’t look up at the creak of the floor as she drifted away from his bed.  “In a little while, when she brings your dinner Marie can-“

“No, please, I-“  He swallowed, tore his eyes away long enough to catch Jacqueline at the door.  “I’ll follow the doctor’s recommendations; I will.  As much time in bed as possible; but she must stay with me.  I can take care of her.”  It didn’t feel like an option, not at all.

Jacqueline hesitated only a moment before she nodded, her smile slight but there all the same.  “Alright.  When you need it, I’ll show you how to mix her formula.  So long as you rest, R, please.  I couldn’t say it then, not when you weren’t ready to talk but it was hard enough you know, hearing you’d been at the barricades.” 

Honestly, he still wasn’t too keen on talking about, not ever, but not then, not when Enjolras’ absence was a palpable thing. 

“I’m alright, Jacqueline.”  It wasn’t true, of course it wasn’t, but with his daughter clinging fast to his hand, it felt closer to true than it had in months. 

\--------

She woke him twice his first night with her.  The second time the room spun when he picked his head up, and he wondered for a moment if maybe Jacqueline hadn’t had a point, but he dragged himself out of bed and picked her up, shushing her softly as he tucked her in close.  He’d realized rather clumsily the first time around it was impossible to mix her bottle while holding her, however, so when he failed to quiet her he laid her down in the warmth of his spot on the bed while he measured and stirred.  Her cries grated his nerves, not so much aggravating as they were mildly terrifying; he had only the vaguest notions of how to care for a baby, after all.  That second time, unsteady on his feet, he lifted her and slipped back in bed with her, lying back as he gave her her bottle. 

After, warm and sleepy and full, she burrowed against his chest, and he decided that standing to put her back probably wasn’t the best of ideas anyway.  He turned onto his side so she could lie comfortably on her back at his side, his arm curling protectively around her.  She reached for him, hands waving sleepily until one grasped his shirt.  Swallowing against the tightness in his throat, Grantaire leaned down and kissed her hair, his lungs full of the scent of this tiny thing that jarred him so fully, instinct and heart and soul. 

“Just for tonight.  Yes?  We’re supposed to be recovering, you know.”  Her eyes drooped as he talked, her mouth moving restlessly as if she wanted to answer.  “Well, I should be.  You, I assume you need only to build your strength.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a whole new volume of cries in a few days.  Of all things, I’m sure you won’t have trouble being heard.  The two of us-“  He stopped, let it hang a moment before he made up his mind.  Jacqueline he could put off, if he didn’t feel like it, could tell a portion of the truth and nothing more but Marcheline was his daughter, _their_ daughter.  How could he shy away from the truth about her father with her, even if she _was_ far too small to understand?  Some habits were best never formed; if he learned to hide it from her now, he might never learn to stop.  “Well.  Neither of us could be accused of not speaking our mind.” 

Not to anyone, but certainly not to each other.  There was little he regretted where Enjolras was concerned, not of his own actions at least, but there were a few drunken words he couldn’t help but wish had been left unsaid.  Still, Enjolras had never held it against him, not for longer than it took to play out an argument, anyway.  Even the nights Enjolras had left the Musain furious with him, Grantaire would come home to find that Enjolras had waited up for him, in bed but plenty alert enough to wrap his arms around Grantaire the minute he joined him.  Enjolras had understood him as well as could be hoped, welcomed him despite his painfully obvious flaws and none of that would ever cease to be shocking, but still, Enjolras had made his choice.  Looking at Marcheline, he couldn’t fight back the pained thought that she’d had no such chance.  Considering what an effect they could have on a life, it was slightly horrifying to stop and think that no man had any influence over the temperaments and choices of his parents.  Everyone could choose to rise above circumstances or to sink below them, that was true, but all the same, the effects were undeniable, ever present even after breaking from the source. 

He should know; he’d done it himself.  To his own father, art had been a hobby and not a profession, something he’d conceded it ‘might’ be permissible for Grantaire to do in his ‘leisure time’ once he had a ‘respectable profession, a position fit for a gentleman’.  In response, he’d proceed to leave Strasbourg where his family had relocated after his childhood and return to Paris, using his living to attend art school.  He had not spoken to his father since, not even at his sister’s wedding.  In the present, he tried to give little thought to the man at all, in his memories, his father mystified him.  The man had hardly paid him any mind, had been too caught up with his own affairs to take note of him beyond an occasional interest in his schoolwork, a bragging point he might introduce in a conversation.  _Yes, yes he’s ten now; his Greek is coming along quite well, if I may say._   

In all his years, he could not recall one instance of a touch from him that had been more than perfunctory, more than an occasional pat on the shoulder.  Whatever else he might fail at, he had resolved long ago that if he had children, he would be far different from that distant, baffling man. 

Grantaire stroked Marcheline’s cheek, more for his comfort than her own.  She was already almost drifting, her little fingers weaker by the minute in their fist around his shirt. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing, you know.  I have to tell you; you’ve not gotten a fair deal.  If you had to have one of us, it should have been him.  It should have been him.” 

Grantaire watched as she fell into sleep, her breath evening, fingers finally slipping fully from her grip. 

\--------

Months ago, if he’d had to consider, Grantaire would have been sure he would lose too large a measure of his sanity without his wine.  Then, however, he hadn’t known what it was to have a daughter.  She became an imperative, a need as strong as any other he’d ever carried, and from there, it became simple.  Drunk, he would be unable to care for her.  There were other capable hands, to be sure; he could have passed her easily to Marie or to Jacqueline for certain nights.  His habit in that case would have remained manageable, the alcohol in his blood not eternally present but there often enough to sustain.  He had the idea, entertained the prospect, and almost as quickly, decided against it.  She was, in that circumstance, both responsibility and incentive. 

Distancing himself from the bottle, he was sick for days, was often forced to leave her temporarily in Jacqueline’s hands.  Sweating and shaking he questioned his own wisdom, sure at times that if he only drank just a little every day, just a little he could manage, would be so much better for her, would be-

Would be drunk, half the nights at least.  Nothing about his nightmares had changed; he still woke with his mouth expectant for Enjolras’ taste, sense memory only driven away by wine on his tongue.  No, if he was to stop, it would have to be entirely, for the time being at least. 

At the height of his sickness, Jacqueline brought him a cool cloth, her fingers pressing it gently to his forehead. 

“From what you’ve told me, I’m sure he’d be proud of you.”  She murmured, meant it for the best, but his stomach twisted.  He could still remember the night in the alley, the feel of Enjolras’ fingers against his forehead as he leaned against the filthy wall, shaking and frightened.  Months beyond his loss, the remnants of the bond still remained in Grantaire’s chest, frayed edges that had faded into a background throb until they were drawn sharply into prominence by need, by memory, by any stirring that would before have brought Enjolras to his side. 

In pain such as he was, he could not fail to instinctively call out for answers that would never come.  Grantaire ached to silence the pull, ached to keep it undimmed by time.  Neither answer would’ve helped him, even had he had his choice.     

Turning his head, Grantaire pressed his lips thin in an attempt to settle his coiling stomach. 

\--------

“You might as well not have bought the bassinet.”  Jacqueline smiled at him from the doorway, leaning against the frame as she nodded toward Marcheline, who rested against his chest.  “I did knock.” 

Grantaire blinked, still drowsy.  He’d only fallen asleep just before dawn, and by his estimation the last time he’d woke it had been close to midday.  Marcheline had been up half the night, irritable and resisting all his attempts to calm her.  She was at the tail end of a cold, a mild illness of the kind the doctor said was common among babies born in winter.  Common it might be, but he knew statistics(he’d heard them all from Joly, after all), and he worried, kept worrying despite Marie’s assertions that a parents stress was easily picked up by their child.  She’d improved despite his fears, but still, she made no secret of her remaining discomfort.  Once she’d fallen quiet, he’d damn near passed out. 

“She naps in it.”  His words slurred a bit with exhaustion, and the urge to stay quiet.  She hadn’t woken yet, and maybe if he was quiet enough…

“You’re going to spoil her, you know.”

“And if I am?  She deserves it.” 

“How is she?”

“Considering she needs far more sleep than I do, I’d say she’s exhausted.” 

“Poor dear.”  He recognized her soothing warmth, a sound of his childhood, and he smiled. 

“No, I’m alright.” 

She tried, unsuccessfully, to fully hide her soft laugh.  “Listen, come and dine with me.  You need some sunlight; she might need to be shut away from the world but it’s not doing you any good.  Perhaps after I can watch her, and you can catch some uninterrupted rest for once, hm?” 

Hesitant, he bought himself a moment in smoothing Marcheline’s hair.  It was such a relief not to feel burning heat in her skin, to see her chest rise and fall with ease. 

“She’s alright, R.  You’re a fine nurse.”

“Liar.”

“No, I’m not.” 

Still, he was starving and, sleep, sleep would be glorious.  If he could come back to her fully rested…

“If Marie can come and sit with her, I will.” 

“She can.” 

Carefully, ever so carefully he slid his arms more fully around her, his touch light but just enough to support as he slipped to the edge of the bed to stand.  He’d learned quickly which boards creaked the most, how to maneuver her best to lay her down for a nap without her eyes popping back open to fall delightedly on his.  Just then, such caution wasn’t really needed.  She was, as he’d been sure of, exhausted.  She hardly moved as he lay her down, one leg kicking slightly against the curve of his elbow. 

Gently, he tucked her in, his fingers lingering as they always did on the collar of Enjolras’ shirt as he settled it just past her stomach.  He still had the blanket from her birth, had used it at first but then _this_ had occurred to him, and he hadn’t thought twice.  Of all the times he’d folded and unfolded that shirt, he’d finally found a proper use for it.  Sometimes, coming awake in the afternoons, she’d grip the collar in both hands and draw it close, pulling it up to suck at the fabric, and he would confirm to himself all over again that yes, she needed it more than he did.  After all, she had nothing of Enjolras but this.  He had, at least, been more fortunate than that. 

Grantaire kissed two fingers, pressed them to her shoulder where he thought a touch would not wake her. 

“Sleep, _ma belle_.  I’ll not be long.” 

\--------

His sobriety lasted until June. 

June 5th dawned bright in Marseilles, and he tried to close his shutters tight, thought that if he shut it out, he might endure.  At six months old, Marcheline was fascinated with the world around her, with everything she could reach but most of all, with _him_.  She reached for his hands actively now, laughing as she grasped his fingers and tugged, asking to be held.  She had wooden toys and a cloth doll(though occasionally, neither were what she wanted, not while teething; in those cases, she tried her best to bite his hands).  She was a delight, a through distraction, but for some things, nothing could be distracting enough. 

He’d spread a blanket out on the hardwood floor, put her down with her toys and tried to keep her busy dangling her doll over her head, an act absent enough that he didn’t actually have to be paying attention.  It was easier to be absent then, with her old enough to hold a bottle on her own, old enough to stand so long as she had him to hold onto and pull her to her feet.  He could do little but watch her, that day. 

He could not cut the barricade from his mind.  He could hear it clear as day, the clamor of its construction, the crash of pianos and bureaus and the clattering of tables and chairs.  He remembered, could almost feel the splinters in his fingers, his palms, the sharp regret he’d felt the minute Enjolras caught him at a meaningless kiss.  If he’d had it to do over, he’d have pulled Enjolras to him and kissed him right there, whether it infuriated him or not.  He’d have convinced him to stay longer upstairs, that last night, have kissed him until Enjolras was too breathless to disagree, would have fallen to his knees and sucked him right there by the window so they could hear if they were needed.  That time, he’d have let Enjolras bite his wrist, would have still soothed it with his tongue, would have gone back down to the barricade with him after.  If he had to leave come morning(and he knew it now, he’d _had_ to, could not look at her and doubt it), he should have, at the very least, spent every last second with him.  Instead, he’d let Enjolras coax him into sleep, let Enjolras learn the news of their fate alone.  As he’d died; alone. 

He ate nothing all day, asked Marie only that she bring him a bottle of wine after Jacqueline and Bernard had gone to bed.  Pressing sous into her hand out of the living he no longer had to spend on life in Paris, he promised more if she would watch Marcheline, and breathe not a word.  She took it, and that night, he handed her his daughter in exchange for a bottle of wine. 

He tugged the shutters open, popped the cork from the bottle and drank such a long first draught that his lungs burned.   The air was hot, there on the coast, but it was nothing on what it had been that night in Paris, nothing to the smell of sweat and gunpowder on Enjolras’ skin as they’d kissed up against the wall.  The man had stood there, bone weary and worried, looking there before Grantaire alone as if he might come apart at the slightest breeze, and yet he’d said nothing of it, reached for Grantaire instead to say _You’re alright?  You’re not hurt?_

He’d been bloodied already, small wounds but there all the same, and still he’d never spared a moment for himself, never even asked Joly or Combeferre to take a look at him despite his constant urging of the other men to have their wounds tended between battles.  That was Enjolras to the last, never a thought for himself beyond his use to the cause, never a personal concern, other than that he’d come to have for Grantaire. 

It could not have been a year since he’d seen him, not when he still felt nearly every time he woke that if he concentrated only a little harder, he might be able to feel Enjolras’ distance from him, rather than the edges of an ever fresh wound.  Almost as hard as that loss was the heavy truth that it had not come on its own.  Nearly every day, he looked at the carved animals he’d bought for Marcheline, and he remembered how Feuilly had been so good with his hands, how if he’d lived, she’d have had her horses and wolves and lions, far more beautiful and lovingly made.  He could imagine it, how Marius would have spoken up to say she needed an eagle, how Feuilly would have relented but carved it from white wood, held it just out of her reach as he told her of the white eagle of Poland, spoke of Polish strength and courage while her tiny fingers closed futilely on air. 

They would have been a family, all of them.  They already had been, but with Marcheline at their center, they would have been quite the sight.  He felt guilty sometimes for such thoughts, while he was sober.  He had Jacqueline, had a sister with him that shared his blood and yet, it was all he could do to keep every day from aching for the family he’d chosen for himself.  He loved her, dearly, but somehow, it was different.  Somehow, that ragged complex of hopelessly hopeful creatures had drawn even closer than her to his heart, down to a man. 

It was astonishing, how quickly he finished the bottle of wine, and satisfying how quick he could feel it.  After months of abstaining, on an empty stomach it rose in his veins sooner than even he’d expected.  It was too hot, his clothes stifling, and he unbuttoned his shirt nearly halfway down, leaned crookedly against the window to catch the breeze. 

“Did you know what you asked of me, Enjolras?  Do you know what it’s like to be the last man?”  He half choked on the words even as he said them, realized that yes, yes he might.  Grantaire didn’t know, would never know, knew only that right up until the last seconds of happiness, he’d been able to feel Enjolras in pain, longing for him.  “And how in God’s name am to do this every year?”  He wasn’t yet through the first, and already he felt like his sanity was slipping.  “And was I wrong?  Can you hear me?  Can you see her? “  It was such a contrast, a divide so deep he couldn’t quite bridge it.  He wanted Enjolras to see her, wanted to believe he could watch her and know her, and still he’d hadn’t had that kind of faith before.  Somehow, his mind worked the way it always had where Enjolras was concerned, looping around him to meet in nonsensical ways that connected with nothing else.  He didn’t have to believe in an afterlife in general to believe in one for his Apollo, it seemed.   

The bottle was empty on the floor, tangling in his feet and ankles when he shuffled closer to the frame to lean on his arm.  He had no answers, truly, not for Enjolras, and not for himself.  He knew only how little he knew, knew that he was lonely and heartsick and lost, cold despite the heat that pressed down on his skin, drunk enough that he swayed a bit on his feet.  It’d been some time since he’d had that feeling. 

He slid to the floor, rested underneath the window without sleeping though his eyes were closed, and he lost track of the time that passed before he stirred out of his stupor.  Downstairs, Marcheline was crying.  They were wails, loud and desperate, nothing like the irritated call for her bottle or her complaints of the heat.  This, it was a sound of distress, and drunk as he was, he couldn’t get his damn feet under him fast enough.  Standing took a few tries but he made it, fingers clawing against the walls and chipping off a tiny bit of paint under his nails.  Dimly, he knew he was in no condition to go to her, knew for certain that he couldn’t bear not to.  By the time he made it halfway down the hall, the sound of Jacqueline’s steps stopped him, drawing him to a weaving pause as she came around in front of him, a thin shawl wrapped around her shoulders. 

“You’re drunk.”  If he was _less_ drunk, he’d probably have felt a lot worse about her tone of resigned despair.  “Grantaire-“

“I have to-“

“What you _have_ to do right now is sit down, or do you think you could be of any good whatsoever when you can’t even stand without a hand on the wall?” 

He’d hardly realized he was leaning.  Stubbornly, he tried to push away from its support only to stumble right back.  He tried again. 

“She needs-“

“I’m sure what she needs is her father.”  Even in his haze, it sliced him deep enough to warn at the kind of cut he’d be waking up to mull over.  Jacqueline’s hands pushed at his shoulders, pressure firm as she directed him back down the hall toward his door.  Unsteady on his feet as he was, he wasn’t hard to direct, not even though he wanted to head in the opposite direction entirely.    “However at the moment, he’s nowhere to be found.”  With a last sharp push, she shoved him through his doorway.  “When you’ve slept it off; I’ll bring her to you, but not a minute before.” She closed the door in his face, and he could hear her footsteps recede quickly down the staircase.

She was right, he knew she was right, and still he nearly opened the door again at a high point in one of her screams, settled instead for pressing his forehead to the wood of the door and breathing, unsteady.   He wouldn’t risk her, wouldn’t so much as frighten her, not for anything.  Still…

He counted the seconds until she stopped, heart in his throat, feeling colder by the moment as he lost his timing and started over more times than he was sure of.  He bit his tongue until he tasted blood, held it for the lingering distraction of the tinge of pain. 

“I’m sorry; I’m sorry…”  He could have meant any of them, Marcheline or Jacqueline or Jehan for all he’d specified, but Enjolras...

He knew from experience that Enjolras, accept apologies though he might, was rather more fond of results. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I was definitely literally falling asleep tying the end of this, oh God I have to go to bed, but I will be writing more tomorrow/today/whatever it is holyshit I need sleep, haha
> 
> EDIT-
> 
> Ok, here's the author's note that I meant to put at the end of this chapter, but that I was too fucking sleepy to type at nearly 5 AM this morning, lmao (...not gonna lie, I'm still pretty sleepy now, because I ended up getting like, less than four hours of sleep. sigh.) BUT OK, so-
> 
> -Marcheline is a name that was popular around the time of the first French Revolution, from what I could find. It means 'warrior' or 'war-like' and it's pretty and honestly it's a name that's been on my own internal 'potential kid names list' for a very long time, and when I had the idea for this story it just seemed like it would be perfect for their daughter, <3 (as a nickname I like the idea of Mari, but Grantaire, he just calls her Marcheline. He's used to long names, lmao)
> 
> -The first proper baby formula was invented in 1867, though there were close attempts with mixtures of animal milk that were available well before that, and they started to rise in popularity above wet nurses in the early 19th century from what I could find. Considering this is a verse where omegas would be commonly having babies aka there would be way more babies with access to not enough/no natural milk source, I didn’t think it was too much a stretch to imagine that discovery could’ve been made a little earlier…necessity is the mother of invention after all, lol
> 
> -I've watched so many videos on youtube now about what babies can do/can't do at certain months of age that I'm pretty sure youtube thinks I'm pregnant. Just sayin'. XD


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to all of you that are not only reading this and loving it but waiting patiently for chapters...you guys are fucking amazing and I love you all and I am so happy you're enjoying this, <3

The headache he woke with had nothing on the sickening guilt that came with it. 

He’d left her, actually left her to sit in their room and immerse himself in his own misery.  While he’d been damn near drinking himself unconscious, his daughter who hadn’t spent a night beyond her first away from him had been downstairs terrified, unable to understand why the familiar arms always there to pick her up didn’t come. 

Grantaire sat up on the edge of the bed, his pounding head in his hands.  God, he’d never heard her cry like that, not even the first time she was ill, not even with the ear infection she’d had later.  More than anything else had, he’d caused her pain. 

His stomach seemed to twist inside him, unsteady but not enough to make him truly sick, not enough.  He hated it, a bit, because he deserved to be, deserved that and more.  Grantaire swallowed, felt his tongue rub thick and dry against the roof of his mouth, and he pushed himself to his feet on wobbling ankles.  He swore under his breath, stopped to breathe with one hand pressed to the bed.  If he couldn’t make himself halfway presentable, Jacqueline would never let him see her. 

After he’d paced the length of the room a few times, he seemed to have the hang of it, though each time he faced the window and the sunlight that streamed through, the influx of fresh pain to his head was nearly blinding.  So long as he tried to keep to the shadows, he could manage.  With a last deep breath to steel his nerves he headed out into the hall, thinking to seek Jacqueline first in her sitting room.

Instead, he found Bernard, reading the paper with a cup of coffee in his hand.  They didn’t interact much, first by design when Grantaire felt like seeing no one, then simply because it was typically inconvenient to seek the man out.  Grantaire had become a supremely anti-social creature, rarely dining with the family and certainly never with any guests they might have, and so their lives had remained largely free of overlap.  Now, from the way he half crinkled half folded his paper as he put it immediately down, he seemed to have been waiting for Grantaire. 

He cleared his throat, took a last drink before settling his coffee cup down with a soft clink.  “Your sister worries about you a great deal, monsieur.” 

“She has since we were children.”  Grantaire inched forward, let his hands close tight over the back of the armchair before him.  It was nice to have stability beneath his fingers. 

“So she has told me.  As she tells it, you have always required a great deal of looking after, albeit not in quite the same manner.” 

Grantaire’s stomach churned, felt he could have choked on the mingled unease and shame that rose high in his throat and yet did nothing for his bone dry mouth.  “If my presence here-“

Bernard held his hand up immediately, cutting him off before he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as his dark eyes found Grantaire’s.  “I’m not turning you out, nor would I wish you gone.  I never would; my wife’s family is mine, regardless of what little I saw of you in the last few years and what little I’ve seen of you since you’ve come to live here.  From what she tells me, you have reason enough to keep to yourself and on that I’ve no mind to judge you.  However,”  Like that, his voice steel strong, Grantaire could picture him as the director of a fleet, full of power and precision.  “-my wife seems honestly afraid she cannot help you, and I cannot watch her suffer.  There are those who now begin to count your vice a medical condition; I am unsure where I stand.  All I know is that if you care for her, you will not make her watch you fall out of her reach.  How you achieve that is up to you.” 

Pain free and less heavy with his own thoughts, he might have had a dozen responses, might have sworn to better maintain stability, might have made promises he had no way of knowing he could keep.  As it was, he could hardly wrap his head around his own thoughts, much less struggle to counter someone else’s.  Let the man judge him; it could be no more harshly than he judged himself. 

“Where is she?” 

He looked away, back to his coffee, and that move could have been anything, disappointment, dismissal, disinterest.  “She’s in the garden, with Marcheline.  She asked that if you came down, I send you out to her.” 

Steeling himself against the onslaught of sunlight, Grantaire headed down the stairs and out the back door.

\--------

The minute she saw him, Marcheline twisted in Jacqueline’s arms, already babbling her delight.  Grantaire’s breath shortened, his vision blurred, hands half reaching for her as he muttered. 

“Please.  I-“

“You see, Mari, I told you he was coming.”  Jacqueline’s nickname and hers alone; Grantaire was used to long names, used to the flow and weight of them on his tongue, and he could never bear to shorten hers.  He took her gently, tucked her in close and ignored the tears that spilled against his cheeks as she gripped at his shirt, her little face nuzzling delightedly against his neck. 

“Shh, I’m here, it’s alright, I’m, I’m-“  Nearly shaking was what he was, and he had to stop.  She would not understand his tears or his pain; couldn’t possibly.  For her sake, he had to form a solid front.  He buried his face against her tiny shoulder, dried his eyes a bit against the soft fabric of her dress.  “It’s alright.  You’re alright.” 

“She is; she’s fine.  She only wanted you.”  Jacqueline shifted right, gave him an invitation to sit, and he took it, though he kept his eyes lowered as far as he could, still squinting against the sun.  “And how are you, Grantaire?” 

Marcheline provided him with a stream of wordless chatter, babbling excitedly as he settled her into his lap where she could tug at his shirt and playfully grab at the fingers he half listlessly tickled her with.  She was alright, truly, a fact that was as much a sharp pain as it was a relief.  She was well, at least, but he himself had then been the full source of her pain. 

His thumb stroked her cheek, so velvety soft and new and fragile.  She was so very fragile, such a breakable little thing, inside and out.  As an irreparably damaged creature himself, Grantaire couldn’t remember what that could possibly be like, to have such certainties, to depend so wholeheartedly that-

No, no perhaps he _could_ imagine, at that.  He had, after all, had utter faith that he would live out his days at Enjolras’ side. 

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.” 

Jacqueline’s fingers stroked through his hair and he flinched, held his breath until she didn’t pull away, until Marcheline tugged his finger toward her mouth to chew the knuckle with her aching gums. 

“More often than not, children are forgiving.  As they grow they may be cruel to each other, but they have a remarkable capability for love, particularly where their parents are concerned.  Forgiveness, that is something they understand.  From what I have seen it is only the grown who struggle with it. “

“Jacqueline,-“

“No, R.  I wasn’t talking about myself.”  With her fingers buried in his hair, she shook him, lightly.  It hurt, his headache seeming to ratchet up a little higher at the rattling, but he’d never have spoken a word.  From the corner of his eye he could see her move closer, see a hint of the sorrow in her eyes before her head came to rest against his shoulder.  “If you cannot forgive yourself for living, then sooner or later, I will lose you.  And so will she.” 

“I cannot forget it, Jacqueline.  I never could.”  It was seared into his mind, every image, every frame.  The parts he hadn’t witnessed seemed almost worse, a thousand iterations plaguing his sleep.  After the drink, the night before, he’d fallen into fitful dreams of the barricade, of Enjolras body pierced by a bayonet, blood dripping from his pale fingers onto Joly’s limp form below.  He had seen their deaths more ways than he could recall. 

“I no more think you could than I think you _should_ ; I said nothing of forgetting.  But your life, _your_ life, it didn’t stop.  For better or worse, you survived.  You’ve worked hard at that; I do not mean to suggest you haven’t.  But if you’re going to raise a child, Grantaire, you’re going to have to do better than that.”  Her hand closed over his, Marcheline’s little fist still clinging tight to his previously chewed finger under Jacqueline’s palm.  “She needs more from you than food and toys and hands to pick her up when she’s frightened, and _you_ have to be more than her caretaker, or you will never make it; I know you won’t.  Ever since you came to me from the barricades I seen _at best_ snatches of the boy I knew.  You’re continuing, Grantaire.  That’s not the same as living.  And if my judgment isn’t good enough for you; ask yourself this- don’t you want your daughter to know the man her father knew?  Because from what you’ve told me, _he_ sounds far more like the Grantaire I know.”

“The man her father knew was a broken drunk.  By that measure I’m doing a fair job.”  The clench of his jaw burned, his teeth gritted so tight he felt he could taste the poisonous slick of bitterness on the words. 

“I may not have known Enjolras, but I have heard enough from you that I would swear on my life he saw more to you than that.  And if you tell yourself otherwise now, you do both of you an injustice.”   

The crunch of her footsteps on the graveled path seemed deafening, louder and harsher than her words had been, and Grantaire breathed heavier until she was gone, eyes closed until he felt Marcheline’s hand brush against his cheek.  She studied him quizzically, confused, he knew, by the tense lines around his eyes.  He’d done his best until now to give her the most well put together covers he could offer, even at his moments of grief.  Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea after all; perhaps it had.  He had no direction, no guidance, no certainty that the parenting skills he seemed to gain by trial and error were even the right direction at all. 

He smoothed her hair, still downy soft but coming in thicker all the time, tried to smile as her babbling wavered into uncertain, half frightened noises.  “No, no, don’t cry; don’t cry.  Papa’s alright.  Your aunt, she just-“  Was right, he knew it.  Survival he had managed; living, that was elusive.  It was why he’d hoped, so many months ago, that perhaps Enjolras wasn’t watching him after all.  For every moment he might be pleased with, there’d be a dozen others to drive him mad. 

Grantaire leaned in, his forehead brushing hers.  “Is she right about you as well, hm?  Can you ever forgive me?  I failed you.  I’m not sure I deserve it.” 

Her hands pressed against his cheek, fingers tracing the fascinating scratch of stubble.  She giggled, clear and bright, and before Grantaire knew it, he was smiling.  She was so very good at that. 

\--------

The first time he took his sketchbook out of the drawer he’d shoved it in before Marcheline’s birth, he did no more than open the cover.  He could remember perfectly the windy day he’d made that first sketch, from the fringes of the crowd as Enjolras talked on a bench near the Seine.  The fervor in his eyes had been breathtaking to behold and Grantaire had thought, _if I could capture something of him, at least…_

The sketch hadn’t done him justice, but it was decently pretty all the same, and close enough of a likeness to make his breath catch.  That first day, he dropped the book and slammed the drawer. 

A week beyond it, he knew he had to try again.  As with Marcheline, he had no directions in this.  From the outset he knew he could never get over the events of their almost revolution, could never move himself in spirit past the barricades, knew it would be foolishness to try.  There, he ran into truths Jacqueline could not understand.  That was alright; she did her best.  She was right in principal though, right to suggest he find a way to properly live with himself, but rather than going forward as she had implied, he knew he must at least partially go back.  For him, there could be no other way. 

On his fourth attempt, he made it through the sketchbook cover to cover, burned down his candle as he turned the pages over and over.  Enjolras listening to Combeferre, Eponine watching Marius, Bahorel lighting a pipe…they were all there, frozen in time.  Thank God that for all his fumbled attempts to help in the past, he’d at least done something right.  So long as he could prevent it, they would not be forgotten. 

The sixth time he opened the book, he was far more prepared, worked feverishly, wrote labels and descriptions and the backs of each sheet, his handwriting half shit and half clear as he struggled to get it all out.  He left only one utterly untouched, devoid of explanation; that one he ripped oh so gently free from the binding, each minute tear taking him precious seconds. 

Enjolras lay naked on their bed, stretched out in striking, lithe lines.  Sated, his cock lie limp against his thigh, his hair chaotic, lips slightly parted and _there_ , on his chest, there was the shadow that had been a bruise left by Grantaire just days before, a bite that had purpled impressively with time.  For all that Enjolras had loved to mark Grantaire, the marks Grantaire left on _him_ had their draw as well.  He could remember the way Enjolras had arched for him, spine bowing up to draw his mouth back to the mark as Grantaire’s lips had trailed away in favor of sucking eagerly at his peaked nipple. 

When he had showed the drawing to Enjolras the morning after Enjolras had blushed, and Grantaire had caught his lips before he could speak, a slow, distracting kiss before he murmured, _Do you see why I call you Apollo now?_

Ever unaware of his own beauty, Enjolras had murmured that Grantaire drew him only as _he_ saw him, not as he was.  Grantaire wondered, briefly, what it would be like to take Enjolras in hand before a mirror, to have him watch as his body burned and convulsed under Grantaire’s fingers, but for the moment Enjolras had been beside him, warm and still naked and kissing him on a Wednesday morning when he had a dozen other things to do, and Grantaire had put all thoughts but those of the present out of his mind.  He was rarely permitted the chance to pull Enjolras to him before he got up to go about his day, and he was not about to do anything less than make the most of it. 

Folding the sketch, Grantaire slipped it into his drawer, amongst his shirts.  That one, it would remain forever his alone, certainly not fit for their daughter’s eyes but not right in his mind for any others, either.  Where Enjolras was concerned, he could not pretend a shortage of jealousy. 

The rest, he would share, first with Marcheline, then Jacqueline, then…perhaps, even farther. 

When he first showed Marcheline, she was too small to understand, big enough to finally be calling him Papa(the first time she said it, it had brought him to his knees) but small enough that it was her only word.  She reached happily for the pictures all the same, and his hand busied her reaching fingers, kept them from the lead even as he gestured to the faces. 

“That, _ma belle_ , is Marius.  He came to us after Courfeyrac took him in, gave him a place off the street when his grandfather kicked him out.  He and Enjolras, they had trouble at times, but he was so very young, younger even sometimes I think than he himself knew, and he was a good friend.  He was our friend.”  She reached, and he drew her fingers up, kissed the tips.  “Marius.  That’s Marius.  And this-“  He turned the page with his left hand, heart still skipping at the sight no matter how many hundreds of times he’d seen that face.  “You must know this one best of all.  If you remember none of the others yet, you must know your father.”  She reached out, caught Grantaire’s collar.

“Papa?” 

Smiling, he kissed her forehead.  “Yes.  Yes, me too.”  He might be seeing what he wanted(but didn’t all parents, sometimes?), but he had to believe she was catching on. 

\--------

The day he took up his paints again, he had hardly seen his little girl more excited.  She clung to his leg, steady enough to stand on her own so long as she had a firm hold, and she reached for the colors on his palette, bright yellows and orange and red. 

Before long, he had her in his lap, her hands covered as she pressed her little palms to the canvas. 

“I was going to paint you a picture for your birthday, you know.”

Unheeding, she squealed in delight, turned back to trace a yellow streak down his cheek. 

When her birthday came, she slept through the night, and he didn’t sleep a moment.  He sat by the window, forehead pressed to cold glass, and he missed Enjolras so strong each breath seemed to pull at a stich in his side.  Come morning he was exhausted but sober.  He didn't make it through the day without needing Jacqueline’s help to watch Marcheline, but he counted a victory even so. 

\--------

When the doctor had come back a week after Marcheline’s birth, he had spoken with Grantaire on three things.  The baby’s health, _his_ health, and his future.  After he’d looked her over, after Jacqueline had taken from the room at his request and he and Grantaire were alone, he had dragged the chair from the desk to the side of the bed, sat down to speak in a voice both soft and firm.

_At what times do you customarily go into heat?_

He had fidgeted, so unnerved by the thought his skin seemed to crawl in an entirely different way, like the cold prickle of ice. 

_I…March.  March and October._

_Mm.  Well, you will skip one heat, perhaps two, particularly with your body also adjusting to the absence of the bond, but it will return.  And when it does, the absence of the bond will most likely be an incomprehensible thing to you, do you understand?_

_That I could still want him will come as no surprise, I assure you._

Pitying, the doctor had laid a hand to his arm, so very gently.  _From all I hear and all I have read, it is an experience a good deal worse than unsatisfied heats before a bond.  I only mean to prepare you._

He’d done his best, then, to give the doctor a settled front, to assure him he was prepared for such an eventuality.  The truth was, at the time, he’d been rather disbelieving.  The notion that he could ache for Enjolras more than he already did seemed a near impossibility, so unlikely he viewed the possibility as little more than a mist thin specter. 

When did indeed skip two heats, he felt only a vague sort of relief, a passing pleasure at the absence of an irritant.  When his skin began to burn the following March, by the end of the first hour, he knew he’d been wrong to doubt the man’s knowledge. 

His mind swam with Enjolras, with the Musain, with the way he’d felt _before_ as he slid to the floor at Enjolras’ side as he worked.  He’d been reining hard on his self-control that day, pulling himself back from the urge to lean just a little to the right and nuzzle Enjolras’ thigh, see if those beautiful fingers might then weave into his hair, if he might give in and let Grantaire suck his cock while he worked or, _oh God_ , take him over the table, push him down on top of his precious maps and-

Panting already, Grantaire went to the basin on top of his bureau and splashed his face with cold water.  He had to pull it together, if only long enough to take Marcheline to Jacquline. 

This was going to be hell. 

\--------

Alone, Grantaire paced like a caged animal.  Soon, his heat would be on him in full force.  Already it pulled at his skin, stretching him at the edges like a thousand little hooks, like sharp teeth that squeezed his nerves between their jaws only to draw them raw to the surface of his skin. 

He had all but begged Jacqueline to send him away but she had insisted he was safer at home, that there was no need for him to travel, and she had instead taken Marcheline and Marie and accepted the invitation to stay with an old friend, not far from the city.  He hadn’t meant to drive her out of her home, but Marcheline was safe with her, and they were both safe from being subjected to his cries.  He could not object to that. 

He walked the floor until he knew the steps between the door and the window, the door and the bed, the window and the bureau.  He locked the door, checked the lock a dozen times.  Too confined, he unfastened his waistcoat, flung it from him.  The fever was building. 

Enjolras’ fingers had encircled his wrist, his grip bruising in contrast to the brush of thumb against his skin that had been oh so careful.  Already he’d imagined that grip around his cock, how it would change, how that soft flick of his thumb probably wouldn’t, and he’d been right and wrong because it was better, so much better than he could’ve hoped and-

Grantaire fell to his knees, nearly ripped open the fastenings on his trousers to get the front down and get his hand around his cock.  He jerked himself quick, whimpering, his memories of Enjolras’ grip so vivid he damn near could’ve come from them alone.  Come spilled over his fingers within seconds, and he gasped, pitched forward to rest shaking on his hands and knees. 

He didn’t feel relieved and this, this wasn’t even heat. 

Frustrated, he slammed the palm of his hand into the floor, driving a splinter into his palm. 

\--------

The night his heat began, Grantaire didn’t sleep.  He tried first to keep his eyes closed, realized the failure in that when it only helped him see the past more clearly.  He tried instead to focus on the off-white ceiling, on the sound gulls, on the tick of the grandfather clock he could hear from down the hall.  Nothing helped, and nothing worked.  He was beyond distraction; he was burning, and it was worse, so much worse than it ever had been before.

As a boy, he’d burned for touch, ached for hands and tongue and most of all, the cock of an alpha to soothe his pain, but his needs ran no more specific than that.  _Now_ , his body knew better.  It had known Enjolras, and it knew precisely what it wanted, beyond that knew the way it felt to be filled and taken by a mate and not simply an alpha.  He knew the press of Enjolras against every inch of him, the fierce passion in him as he’d gripped Grantaire and held him close in their second tie, the possession bleeding through the bond and through his hands.  _You are mine, mine, and I will take care of you._  

Grantaire cried out, his cock jerking painfully at the memory of the tie, of Enjolras’ cock spilling inside him, dulling the pain, soothing the fever.  Twisting, he slid his hand back, found his entrance so slick his shaking hands slipped first before he was able to slide two inside, thrusting frantically, erratically.  It wasn’t enough, wasn’t near enough.  He came hard, and felt no different. 

Halfway through the first day, unable to sustain the shaking tension in his body, he fell into exhausted sleep. 

\-------

_Enjolras’ mouth around his cock was so hot it felt just then a molten thing, wet and clinging and full of fire.  Grantaire thrashed, crying out as his right hand twisted in the sheets, his left shaking with the effort of not using his grip on Enjolras’ hair to jerk his head down even farther, to thrust too eagerly between his lips.  Enjolras hummed, low, and the sound that left Grantaire’s throat was far closer to a sob._

_Sliding off, Enjolras’ damp lips brushed against the base of his cock, soft kisses peppered between words as he whispered.  “Why do you fight it?  Come for me, let me have the taste of you on my tongue before I fuck you.”  Enjolras took him in again, tongue pressed against the underside of his cock and oh God, oh God, he-_

Grantaire woke as his cock twitched, come trickling across his heaving stomach.  Whimpering, he curled onto his side, arms clutched tight across his chest. 

\--------

On the second day, he could remember that it was, indeed, the second day.  Beyond a throat so raw from screams he would not have been surprised to feel it bleed, this was his sole accomplishment. 

He slipped in and out of consciousness, caught here and there in dreams that, once, made him laugh, a hoarse, horrible sound.   Before, he had been sure Enjolras had come to him because he knew from past experience his mind could not conjure Enjolras into his bed so very vividly.  Now, with more enough history to draw from, his mind had no such restrictions.  He craved his snatches of sleep and hated them, sought them at times and struggled to stay awake at others.  Most often, he got the opposite of what he wanted. 

_Enjolras wrapped around him from behind, his palm pressed flat to Grantaire’s stomach, sucking hungrily at the side of Grantaire’s neck while his knot swelled.  The first time Grantaire had been prepared for it to hurt, his mind catching fearfully on the times he wouldn’t mention, the men who’d jerked his trousers down and shoved his hands to the wall before they thrust inside.  Oh he’d keened for them then, too far gone in the fever to know what he wanted, but even in the midst of heat a spike of the fear he might normally have had bled through at the push and pull of their knots at his body.  It had brought a flash of pain he had to ride out, lasting enough that he’d not been surprised the second time to later find blood on the back of his trousers._

_He should have known, any experience with Enjolras could bear no resemblance to those two men.  The eager movements of his fingers had helped, certainly, but there was nothing like the size of a knot, nothing like the space it demanded and still, it had pained him for only a moment, and then Enjolras’ teeth were biting down gently on the back of his neck, arousing and soothing and distracting, drawing him out of the pain until it faded into nothing but pleasure.  He’d come to crave the moment, after that, their bodies adjusting to each other until his was familiar with Enjolras’ shape and size, until Grantaire’s muscles only welcomed him, and from the first swell at the base of his cock Grantaire was already whimpering with need fulfilled.  To be tied to Enjolras…there was nothing more intimate, nothing that could so easily set him shivering._

_As his cock settled Enjolras’ teeth scraped lightly over the fresh mark he’d left on Grantaire’s shoulder, letting Grantaire feel against wet skin how he gasped as come was drawn from his cock.  Turning his head he nuzzled against Grantaire’s neck, seeking his mouth.  Grantaire bit his lip, pressed his face into the pillow and tried not to sob at the gentle touch of those damp lips to the side of his throat._

_“Will you not kiss me?”_

_He sounded so genuinely wounded that Grantaire gasped, his eyes welling with tears.  He was torn between arousal and pain, oblivious joy and the realization that Enjolras was dead, he knew he was dead; this time, it could absolutely be no more than a dream.  The pain in his chest was so great, it seemed unfathomable that it wasn’t cracking.  This was a dream, after all; it could happen.  Anything could._

_“You’re not real.”_

_“This again?  And here I thought I’d convinced you.”  His hand slid slow up Grantaire’s chest, came to press just over his heart.  “Do I feel like a dream to you?  I’m here, Grantaire.  I’m right here.”_

_“Stop it, just stop it, it’s bad enough without-“_

_“Would I ever lie to you, now?”  His wandering lips pressed just below Grantaire’s ear, his breath brushing the shell as he whispered.  “I have missed you more than you would ever believe.”_

_It couldn’t be, couldn’t be, couldn’t-_

_“Grantaire, I-“  His words cut short, a low moan leaving him as Grantaire’s body pulled a fresh shock of orgasm from him.  “I’m with you.  How could I leave you?  For my return, is a kiss too much to ask?”_

_Yes, yes it was, because kissing like **this** with Enjolras inside him had been something different, something theirs and special and sacred and the first time he had felt through the bond the pleasure Enjolras took from it when he had actually been coherent enough to realize it, he could have wept.  _

_He didn’t want it like this, not when it wasn’t real, not when he knew it couldn’t be real, when he knew he’d wake up and-_

_Enjolras clutched him close, his lips trailing Grantaire’s jaw._

_God, he was only so strong.  He turned his head, reached back to bury his fingers in Enjolras’ hair as their lips met and it was perfect, the taste everything he remembered, the shock of pleasure that shivered down to his cock as strong as ever when Enjolras moaned at the stroke of his tongue.  Enjolras’ fingers were curling against his chest and he didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to break for air didn’t want-_

To wake up, his raw throat stinging.  For a moment he could almost feel the lingering press of Enjolras against his back, bare where he’d taken off his shirt the night before.  Lashing out, he caught his pillow in his hand, threw it hard and heard it thump softly against the opposite wall.  He curled in tight, wanting a blanket and not wanting the pressure, aching to wrap his hand around his cock and knowing it wouldn’t help, knowing he half didn’t want it anyway, not with the fresh emotional wounds gnawing at his edges. 

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”  His voice rasped, dry and sore, catching with a sob he hadn’t quite seen coming.  “It’s hard enough you’re gone; why won’t you…” 

Unable to finish, the words dissolved into sobs.  His fingers clutched at the blanket, hand weak as he gripped and released, heart at odds with his mind, his words.

_Don’t go, Enjolras, please, please don’t go._

If this lasted four more days, he wasn’t at all sure how he was meant to keep from madness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...um...I feel this chapter should come with the disclaimer, "Sometimes, I am Satan.".
> 
> pleasedon'thurtme


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I think I can safely promise that will be the longest gap between chapters ever. x.x Also, I don't think this one will kill you? 
> 
> Also also, thank you guys so fucking much for being patient; I really really really appreciate and love you all...I just got so busy there for awhile with rl stuff, both the end of the semester and work, and my brain was just kind of a bit burnt out after those things. Sigh. 
> 
> I have to start some more school stuff like, tomorrow, but I'm going to try my best to not let fic get that neglected again, T.T

At the end of that first heat after the only one that really mattered, Grantaire had to hope the first would be the worst.  He sent for Jacqueline as soon as he was well enough to manage it, though even then the minute she came through the door she paled at the sight of him.  He didn’t try to refute her, settled for a grim smile because he could imagine what she saw.  He was still unsteady, weak on his feet from dehydration, his hands still bearing a tremor they kept for days.  In the mirror that morning he’d seen the dark circles under his eyes, the slight change in the hang of his shirt that told him he was just a bit thinner for having hardly eaten. 

The pain in her eyes hurt him, a knife that twisted just a little as the thought brushed his mind that if it pained _her_ to see him, he could only imagine what the sight would have done to Enjolras.  He had hovered before, at the start of the pregnancy, but to see Grantaire so weak from his heat, from a condition Enjolras himself could have relieved…it would have tormented him. 

He could hardly stand that progression of thoughts, and so for the first week of her return, he could hardly face Jacqueline at all.  In contrast, Marcheline was his ready comfort, her joy at the sight of him as infectious as ever.  If she noticed the twitch in her beloved papa’s hands as he played catch with her new ball, she was far too young to see any significance in it.  She was not troubled, and in her presence, it was harder for Grantaire to be. 

The dreams he’d had in his heat had brought Enjolras into his mind with a lifelike force that seemed determined to stay with him now that it had been again invoked.  He woke a dozen times expecting to see Enjolras sprawled out asleep beside him, but with her there, his absence was easier to bear.  She slept most nights through by then, little hands scrunched around the soft ragdoll Marie had made for her.  At those moments, he could lay a hand against her back, feel her steady, sleepy rhythm, watch her eyelids flutter as she slept and wish fervently that she would grow slowly, because she could not remain constantly with him for very long.  Another year or so and she would need a room of her own, and he would be left with long stretches of hours alone with his thoughts, the ghost of Enjolras forever whispering at him. 

Curled on his side one night weeks past his heat, wide awake, he traced the moonlight on the sheets with his fingers.  He had painted that afternoon, a flock of seabirds.  He had tried twice now to capture the moment they rose from the sand to skim over the surf and both times he’d been displeased with the results.  He sought a mix of rise and struggle, the catch of wind beneath wings an opposing force to the lapping ocean that threatened to rise up and pull on their feathers.  His thoughts swirled together, the ocean and his daughter, Enjolras and the birds. 

“You know, I wonder sometimes if you didn’t stay with me after all.  We know so little about the dead, and I can picture you at it, a refusal to conform, a misguided attempt, perhaps, to save me from beyond the grave?  Is that it, Enjolras?  Or do you visit us, hm?  Does God permit you that?  Or have I lost my senses so entirely that I merely think sometimes that you have been here, that if I had turned my head fast enough I might still catch you?”  The feeling was so strong, sometimes; like the burn of eyes on the back of his shoulder.  He could feel it then, a tension that tingled his spine.  Before, it had driven him to drink, but he was beyond that, had grown good at refusing it.  Since then, he had held his breath and looked back a hundred times but there was never anyone there, never.  With each such breath he released, he cursed himself for ever looking.  He still had the remnants of the bond in him.  He knew all he needed to know.  Knew, and still the urge to look never left him. 

Grantaire shut his eyes against that urge, tucked the blankets up a little higher around Marcheline’s shoulders by feel rather than sight. 

“Goodnight, Enjolras.” 

If he was crazy; he was crazy.  So be it. 

He dreamed that night a dream so simple it struck him, his breath held in his lungs for a moment as he faced the strange sensation that it was the room he opened his eyes to that was real, not the one he’d only just left.  Once his mind cleared he could remember little more of the dream than images, the small porch of a farm house, roughhewn chairs, a wrinkled hand clasped in his on the armrest beside him. 

He had never dared imagine Enjolras as an old man, but then again, he had never thought quite enough on what a luxury it was to grow old.  Even in memory Enjolras defied all attempts to age him, a creature of such light and youth that try as he might to recall the details of the dream, Grantaire could not see his face. 

\--------

The first heat wasn’t the worst.  He could measure them and rank them by nothing more than length, some blessedly shorter than the others though the acute pain those days were filled with never altered.  Still, it was the spaces between that mattered, the life they built in all those other weeks.  Marcheline grew into a young girl full of fire and laughter, and Grantaire felt a bit as if he grew with her.  His cynicism remained, the losses he’d suffered burned undimmed, and still he could feel subtle changes in himself as his world shaped around her.  He painted and sold a little here and there, but it was the paintings that made her eyes light up that he treasured.  For her he could go out into the world again all because the sun and the sand pleased her, because she loved shops and people and sharing biscuits with the blacksmith’s daughter who often sold flowers on their street.  For her he laughed; for her, he began to feel he might do anything, anything at all. 

At six years old, she had learned all he began to teach her, though her earliest informal lessons remained her favorites, as he’d hoped they might.  Nothing warmed him like the nights she tugged on his sleeve before bed, eyes soft and certain as she asked, “Tell me again, papa.  Please?” 

And so he would take the sketchbook out, let her hold it in her own hands and direct his stories.  Sometimes it took effort to decide on a picture, her pink freshly scrubbed fingers shuffling through page after page before she finally made her choice, let it flop down against her lap as she patted the page. 

Tonight, it was Jehan, the daisy hooked behind his ear slipping slightly because his attention was on the work of his hands, the part of the sketch Grantaire had never finished.  He had, instead, gotten up to move closer, to watch Jehan smooth salve onto the bruises on Bahorel’s arm.  Joly had been right beside them, examine the cut beneath his eye and rambling about infection and the thousand ways Bahorel would bring about his own demise if he didn’t stop brawling in bars. 

“That was a long night.  Bahorel had gotten himself into a bit of trouble down near the law school, but Jehan, he always took care of us.  Always.  Often simply by his presence.  He had such heart, _ma belle_ ; I can hardly tell you.”  Grantaire drew himself up to rest against the post of her bed, smiling across at her as she settled into her blankets, content.  “Have I ever told you he wrote a verse for me, once?  It was grand, too grand for me, though he said I couldn’t see as clearly as he could.  I begged to differ, told him his words would be better spent on a worthier subject.”

“I like you as a subject.”

“Yes, well.”  He caught her feet from on top the covers, and she giggled as he squeezed lightly.  “You would, wouldn’t you?  I am afraid, Marcheline, that you are a biased critic, and biased critics cannot properly judge the art they love-or art _of_ those things they love.” 

“I bet father liked it.”

Grantaire chuckled, imagining.  At that point in time, Enjolras had still resolutely avoided him.  The poem in question, in fact, had been written of a boxing match he’d agreed to compete in for a few francs.  Enjolras had refused to attend, too busy to concern himself with such frivolous plans(or so he claimed, despite the fact that he’d spent the afternoon walking with Courfeyrac along the Seine), and Grantaire had won.  The money had gone for a bottle of wine, and Bossuet’s dinner; the poor man was forever out of funds. 

“Father never heard it, but he was busy then.  He did take a little time though, here and there.  He always made time for us; never forget that.  He always made the time, even when he didn’t have it.  He might not have known all Jehan worked on, but he knew his skill as a poet, and he was proud to know him.  That much I know.” 

“And he liked these, didn’t he?”  She reached for the book, thumb sliding down the corner, and Grantaire swallowed hard, remembering.  Enjolras had looked through them only once, the night Grantaire had asked to draw him in their bed.  Only once, but he had looked, had called them magnificent, and if Grantaire’s throat had worked a little better, he might have found a way to purr through sheer force of will. 

“Yes.  He did.” 

The rustle of pages drew his eye, and he watched her turn worn corners, eyes barely skimming the paragraphs he’d added that she couldn’t really read but lingering on the drawings that covered the fronts of each used page. 

“Papa?”

“Yes?”

“I like this one.”  It was one of his early attempts, Enjolras hands folded lightly in front of him as he leaned on the table and listened to Combeferre speak.  He hadn’t drawn Combeferre at all, really, just a hint of his elbows, but Grantaire remembered.  He’d _meant_ to draw Combeferre, but Enjolras’ face was too arresting, and he’d run out of time to capture the scene.  By the time he finished adding detail to Enjolras, Combeferre was up and gone. 

Grantaire smiled, brushed his thumb against the image beside hers.  “Yes, that one comes close to how he looked so many nights.  He was listening to Combeferre.”  The older she got, the more she sometimes looked at the pages like she was then, like if she stared hard enough, she could fall in.  Over and over, he tried to remind himself that though he had lost a mate, she had lost a parent, lost him before she could ever know him.  She did genuinely love to hear the stories of their friends, he was sure of that, but even so it was _these_ pictures she outright devoured, starved for every scrap of this mystery man she’d never had a chance to meet that she could get. 

Grantaire tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear, his touch light.  She didn’t look up, not even when he tried again for her attention, smoothing her hair.  “I must tell you, it comes close, but I’ve seen a far closer approximation.” 

Her head jerked up, ocean blue eyes wide with question.  “Can you show me?”

“Easily.”  Grantaire pushed away from the bed, his goal half hidden by the way he kept his back to her on the way to the dresser.  Her hand mirror was there, just where Marie had left it, and he pocketed it before turning to head back and perch on the edge of her bed again, this time a little closer.  He held the mirror in his pocket a moment, fidgeting fingers warming the metal.  “Here.  Have a look at the closest likeness of his I have ever seen.” 

She giggled the minute he pressed the mirror into her fingers, and though she shoved him playfully, she did look. 

“Really?”  She whispered, her smile enormous, and Grantaire could not resist leaning in to kiss her hair.  He could not tell her, would never tell her that it was only that very smile that was out of place.  She smiled readily where her father’s smiles had been so very rare.  Seeing the frequency of hers he had wondered, before, about Enjolras’ youth, of what it might have been like to meet the boy who became the crusader.  Once upon a time, perhaps he had matched her even in that. 

“Really.  You are his image, in so many ways.  A blessing several times over; I would wish my looks on no one.” 

“Papa-“

“No, don’t bother; my mind is quite resolved on the subject.”  She would have protested again, stubborn thing that she was, but he caught the hand that held the mirror, slid his fingers beneath it to encourage her to drop it in favor of his fingers.  Hers still felt so small close against his, though he could remember so easily a time when they were smaller still, when all five of them wrapped around a single finger…

God, when had she grown so much?  Grantaire squeezed her hand gently, gave himself a moment to clear his throat before he began. 

“I’d like to ask you something.  When I do, you must know, the choice is yours.” 

Marcheline drew her knees up close to her chest, almost melting back into the pillows except for the hand she kept stretched out to hold his.  Beneath her blankets, from that angle she didn’t quite look so big after all. 

“What’s wrong, papa?”

“No, no it’s-“  He waved his hand, impatient with himself.  Clearly, he had no idea where to begin.  “Everything is alright, and nothing has to change if you don’t wish it, but I wondered…I have wondered if you might like for us to go back to Paris.”  _Back_ , though to her knowledge, she had never been.  To Grantaire, it counted all the same.  She had been there, at the barricade.  She was born of Paris’ streets; she had known her city, even if she could not remember. 

“To _Paris_?  And stay there?”  It sounded like joy, looked like joy for the light he could see in her eyes, but he had to be sure.

“Yes.  Stay there, and find a home of our own; would you like that?”

“Will Aunt Jacqueline come?” 

“We could visit her here still; anytime you like.  We can visit, and she could come stay with us, but she would have to come back here, to _her_ home.  And Paris will be ours.”  Like it already was, like it always had been.  At first, he had wanted nothing but distance between himself and what had seemed to him a godforsaken piece of ground, but Paris had a pull over those she had called her own.  He missed her streets and alleys, missed the Seine, missed Saint Michel.  There was nothing glorious about the spartan student housing he and Enjolras had come to share, but he felt homesickness for it all the same, for that one portion of the great conglomeration that was Paris that had managed to endear itself to him.  Lately, even the sea breeze felt wrong, and he’d laughed at himself, imagined how Jehan would have teased him.

_You wake up every morning on the coast with fresh air through your window, and yet you miss the heavy, stagnant air of the slums?  Grantaire, I believe we have made you into a romantic after all._

Jehan’s memory had only solidified his resolve.  He would admit it to no one, could hardly acknowledge it himself, but their voices grew weaker every year.  Their laughter no longer rang so clearly from the walls of the café in his mind, the images no longer quite so sharp.   His memories of Enjolras remained largely untouched, but he feared that was only because he went over them so often.  Time weathered everything, and despite his hopes he had no way to be sure if having the city around him again might clear a bit of the fog.  Just last month, he’d hesitated in a new painting over look on Feuilly’s face as he laughed.

“Can we go where you met father?”  There was such hope and innocence in her; he hated to stifle it, hated to rein her in, but that much, he could not promise. 

Smiling, he deflected.  “I will take you to places where the people gathered to hear him speak; I’ll show you the walk along the Seine he often took because Courfeyrac favored it.  There is enough in Paris a man could walk her streets all his life and never stop seeing something new.  So…shall we?” 

“Yes!” 

She threw her arms around his neck, and he laughed as he caught her.  It was good that she wanted to go, good that she seemed to crave Paris in her own way almost as much as he did.  He was glad for it, and still, he faced a hurdle almost daunting enough to draw a grimace.  Now that he was certain, he would have to tell Jacqueline. 

\--------

“As far as I understand, we do still keep a gardener.”  Painfully aware of the purpose for which he’d come out to her, the taste of ‘we’ on his tongue burned, sharp and acidic. 

Jacqueline tossed the pruning shears in her hand lightly to the soft ground, reached a hand back to beckon Grantaire without taking her eyes off the yellow roses before her.  “He is a good man, but the roses don’t like him.  They never have.  It’s a softer touch they need.”  She stroked the petals of the closest bloom, her thumb gentle and smooth. 

“I see.  Have you considered instead that it is your blood they prefer?  You are easier to prick drawn in close.” 

“You can be horrible, you know.”

“Oh I make no pretense otherwise.”   Grantaire took her hand, steadied by its warmth as she pulled him up behind her.  “They’re beautiful, Jacqueline.” 

“Thank you.”  He had fully intended to come out with words prepared, and perhaps he had.  If he’d had them, they had left him then.  For the moment there was only unease and guilt, the muted warmth of spring sun through the sleeves of his shirt and the smell of salt on the breeze.  Grantaire touched a rose away from the one Jacqueline still held, the stroke of his thumb quicker but no less appreciative.  He would never cease to be surprised at how much they felt like silk, how such a tiny, fragile thing could come to be so very soft. 

“It’s time.”  His throat went dry, and he struggled to clear it, to catch up to himself before she questioned him.  “I’ve been too long gone from Paris, Jacquline.  I have to take Marcheline home.”  Once said, it sounded right enough to soothe the anxiety.  She would hate it, and he would understand, but the truth remained the same.  He could not stay away any longer, not unless his daughter had asked it of him. 

She froze like he might have guessed she would, delicate petal pressed between thumb and forefinger.  In her place, another woman might have squeezed too hard.  Jacquline let go. 

“If you need more privacy-“

“Beyond that I have already here, you know there’s no privacy I require from you.  If Marseilles was home, I’d live with you forever but this…there are elements I have come to love about this place.”  He would not hurt her, not for anything.  Marseilles, like his sister, had been kind to him.  “But I came here to hide, and I’ve done it long enough.  She deserves to see where she came from.”  _And I want to go home, more than I knew before I let myself think it._

He wanted all of it, the muddied waters of the Seine and the cobblestones and the broken justice on the streets.  Every day for the rest of his life, he wanted to wake up and see the city they’d died for. 

Jacqueline adjusted her skirt enough to kneel her eyes still on the roses though when she reached for the shears where she’d dropped them, her fingers lingered pressed to damp soil. 

“I suppose I knew you could not stay with us forever.  But I had hoped…”  He could hear her hesitation, the held breath that told him she’d cut herself off short, and Grantaire waited, stayed silent until she gave up and stood.  She dusted her hands on her apron, quick and ineffective.  When she reached to take his hand again, Grantaire could feel the grit of cool earth.  “I know it’s nothing to what you go through, but it hurts me to see you in pain.  You don’t have to be alone, Grantaire, there are-“

He jerked away, turned his back to hide the grimace he couldn’t fight.  “Out of the question.”

“R, will you at least _listen_ before you ignore me?  I realize the bond happens where it will; I may be a beta but I’m not ignorant.  I know the occasions of a recurrence of such an event are rare, but there are omegas that marry, Grantaire.  You know there are.  It’s not perfect, but if you had an alpha husband or wife, you-“

“What, I would have what, Jacqueline?  Some—prescribed treatment for my ‘condition’?  Or another parent for Marcheline, is it that as well you think I lack?” 

“You know I would never!”  He’d burned her, he could hear it, and he had to admit he deserved every bit of the fury those words had held.  It was her, after all, who’d said so many times what a good father she thought he’d turned out to be.  Of all the unfair accusations to assault her with, it was absolutely out of line.  Sometimes, in arguing with her, he really did feel like a boy all over again, childish and cruel. 

Sighing, he turned back to her.  “No.  You would never.  The rest of it, I meant.  I could never consider it, Jacqueline; you must understand.  When I lost Enjolras-“  How, how could he put it so she might understand?  How could he put words to the hole that had ripped in his chest; how could he describe the horrible sudden realization that Enjolras was gone, his presence in Grantaire’s consciousness torn violently away?  He had yet to be able to put the feeling onto even canvas or paper, though he had tried.  Both attempts had given him pieces he’d viewed once completed only to shut them both away. 

He knew little about Enjolras’ death; he’d reminded himself a dozen times no good could come from envisioning it. 

Conciliatory, he let his hand rest lightly on her shoulder.  “I know you mean well, but there is no choice in this.  Not for me.  He died alone, Jacqueline.  And so will I.”  A hundred times he’d thought it, always before only to himself.  For him, the words were comforting.  For her, they were anything but.  Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and he could feel the shudder in her breath when she whispered.

“Have you any idea how much I worry about you?” 

He kissed her temple lightly, half smiling.  Every time he held her, he was still just a little surprised to be taller.  For so many years, he’d been such a small thing compared to her. 

“I wish you wouldn’t.”  Before she could tell him it was futile, he squeezed her gently.  “I love you, too.” 

\--------

It was a sign to Grantaire that they left at the right point when he realized on their departure that hard as it was to leave, it had become harder to stay.  He was restless, drawn home like the magnetic pull on a migrating bird. 

In the coach Marcheline curled up against his side, and though she cried a little when they left, he promised her a hundred visits, and she quieted.  She clung to him in her sleep and he held position until he could no longer feel the arm she grasped.  He smiled, unable to mind.  As far as he was concerned, she could have the arm as long as she wanted.  He was, after all, forever at her disposal. 

He only woke her when the city came into view, the skyline of Paris at first only a dim insinuation of form in the early morning blue.  Grantaire gathered her up gently to slide her over to his lap, counting on careful motion to be enough to rouse her.  Her eyelids fluttered, and he whispered against her hair before they had even fully opened. 

“Look, just there.”  He pointed out the window toward the horizon, pressed his fingers to the glass as his heart jolted.  “Paris.” 

Marcheline leaned into him, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder as she peered into the low light.  “It’s so big.”

“Bigger than you can imagine, _ma belle_.  Paris is a world all its own.” 

Years ago, he’d have continued, rambled at length on how, as the world, it was full of darkness, too big and sprawling a place to be anything but a inconceivably grand mess.  The words came to him still, he could feel them in his throat, but he was careful, with her.  Had Enjolras lived, he might have to be.  He would have held his tongue in places still, to be sure, but he still would have tipped his hand, let his doubts and perceived laws of nature spill over.  With Enjolras gone, there was no one left to be the better man but him, a weak pretense at best.  Thus far, he’d largely managed only to keep his mouth shut, but the older she got, the more his throat threatened to close around a pitiful attempt at a half remembered grand speech.  There was so much Enjolras would have wanted her to know, so much she deserved to learn.  He had not yet begun, and already Grantaire thought himself an incompetent teacher. 

\--------

For all his cynicism, Grantaire had to admit that to see Paris through the eyes of a child who had dreamed of it like a promised land all her life was to see Paris anew.  She laughed with such joy at the simplest things, at the walk by the river they’d taken a hundred times or the overwhelming stream of carriages on the wide main streets.  At the sight of the stately walls of the law school where Enjolras had taken his classes, her eyes sparkled, and she tugged his hand. 

“Did you come here, too?”  With her hanging off his arm, he hated to admit that he had never finished his courses.  He told a half-truth instead and said that yes, he’d taken classes in a building not far away.  Her smile made him sure the not-quite-lie was worth it. 

They took up residence in the old family house, the sanctuary to which he’d run the morning he came in search of his sister.  It was strange to be there at first, in a place where every corner held an echo of his childhood.  His old room had been termed a guest room but it remained largely untouched, his old desk still pushed to the corner of the room just where the sun would hit it best and not be in his eyes.  It was an inherited thing, that desk, his mother’s from when she was a girl.  It was sturdy, practical and hardy, and as he traced his fingers through the dust Grantaire imagined Marcheline making use of it. 

She learned so quickly, both her letters and the paint he’d begun to show her.  The paintings she had attempted so far were all simple things, not enough to know yet if she had a gift for the subject, but Grantaire loved them all the same.  He hung his favorite in his room, above the lamp where the yellow of the flowers she tried to capture for him would catch the light.  Flowers were a recent favored subject of hers, as they’d come to Paris just in time for the start of the blistering summer, and in certain places, there was color everywhere.  He had tried to keep her there, to the streets full of light and life and as little misery as possible, but she asked over and over about Saint Michel, and Grantaire knew he could only put her off for so long.  Soon, she would be past the age of easy distraction. 

For the time being, they walked often, and he grew accustomed to the pull of her hand tugging him toward an iris or dragonfly or a puppy, but when she froze one afternoon it seized his attention just as easily as the insistent pull of her fingers. 

“What is it?  I told you, the cat we saw yesterday-“

“Papa, _look_!”  He would, if he’d been able to tell precisely _where_ she was looking, but she was off and gone before he could sort it out, slipping his too slack grip to lead him on a chase.  It wasn’t often she got away from him, perfectly content more often than not to keep herself to a close orbit without him having to remind her that these streets weren’t safe.  She didn’t have much distance on him, however, and his legs were longer.  She wasn’t trying to evade, wasn’t darting like he knew she could when they played so he caught her shoulder with minimal effort, pulled her off balance and back against him.

“Haven’t I told you you’re to stay with me?  This is no place for you to-“

“Grantaire!” 

For a moment, he felt he could have fainted.  His skin prickled with a chill, and he held his breath so as not to mar the way the tone of that voice still echoed in his ears.  Years past, and he would have sworn on anything at all without raising his eyes an inch that he knew Marius’ voice as he’d known all the others; better than his father’s, more intimately than his own.  How many hundred nights, after all, had he listened to Marius speak?  He would have sworn, and still he told himself he would have been wrong; for that, he kept his head down.  Paris was full of ghosts, for him.  It was more of a wonder, really, that Marius’ voice was the first he’d yet heard.  He would take a breath, perhaps two to be sure he held steady, and then he could face this stranger who knew his name, an old boxing partner perhaps or-

But no, no those were hands on his shoulder and he knew that grip, too, knew the way Marius’ had pressed his arm the night he returned to join them at the Musain.  He knew, and if he hadn’t, the face that met his vision when he looked up in shock gave him all the final confirmation he required.   

Marius had called out to him loud enough that he’d have been clear had the whole width of the Seine separated them, but his name fell from Grantaire’s lips in a choked whisper, a broken, desperate thing.  Marius’ answering grasp was so tight his chest could only expand so far from breath, a need that seemed inconsequential.  A little air was enough; he could not enough proof of this, no matter how tight Marius held him, how tight he belatedly realized his own grip was in return.  It was only when he felt Marcheline’s fingers clinging to his shirt that he relaxed his fists against Marius’ back, easing back enough to look into blue eyes that had been so young when last he saw them.   Now, age beyond their years had caught them both.  The lack of youth in those formerly bright eyes might have hurt him more if he hadn’t understood it quite so well. 

“I was so sure I was the last of us.”  Grantaire’s hands lingered on his shoulders, unwilling to let go.  “I was certain the others-“

“You weren’t wrong.  We are the last.  I knew-“  Marius’ words wavered, weighted by pain still fresh from aging wounds.  “I knew your body was never found, and I searched for you, but after so long I did not dare to hope that-  Grantaire, had I known-“

“I left Paris; you had no way to know.”  But he had had hope, at least, hope that Grantaire might have survived because his body, _his_ body was never- 

Grantaire’s hand dropped to settle against Marcheline’s back, already murmuring an apology as he dropped to crouch beside her. 

“You must forgive me, Marcheline; on such an introduction I would not keep you waiting.  Marcheline,-“

“M’sieur Marius, papa’s told me so many stories about you!”  Overriding Grantaire, she held her hand out to Marius.  He took it readily, letting her fingers perch against his like a tiny, fragile bird. 

“Has he?  And how do I fair, in these stories?” 

“All good, I assure you.”  Marius smiled at Grantaire’s murmured assurance, though as he bent closer to her level Grantaire could see the too bright shine of his eyes as he studied her. 

“Marcheline, it is an honor.  If your papa agrees, might I ask you both to accompany me home?”   

Her head turned so fast her hair whipped against Grantaire’s arm, and he gave her a smile as she asked, “Papa, please?”

“Of course.  Of course we will.” 

They had reached the end of the park and taken a carriage by the time he thought it safe to ask Marius the question that had burned in his mind since they had begun to speak, his voice low and masked by the clop of hooves while Marcheline watched the world out the window. 

“You said my body alone remained unaccounted for?” 

Following Grantaire’s lead, Marius muttered more quietly still.  “They buried them together.  We’ll go tomorrow.  If-“

“Yes.  Yes, I want to see it.”  


End file.
